To woman’s
intuition and to everyone who feels a little different . . .
The second
half of the eighteenth century was a time of burgeoning interest in all things
scientific, although the word “science” was not defined as it is today. Reading
bumps on heads was considered as scientific as staring at the skies through
telescopes. Although this was also a time in Great Britain of great
experimentation in agriculture, the word “agronomist” had not yet come into
use.
For the
sake of the modern reader, I have ignored eighteenth-century definitions and
confusing phrases and used words like “scientist” and “agronomist,” as we do
today.
For the
disbelievers among us who may be tempted to scoff at my heroine’s gifts, let me
remind you that it has been scientifically proven that smell can evoke memories
and influence mood, emotions, and choice of mates. It can predict death and
detect illness. In a primitive manner, man can communicate by smell. Just don’t
expect characters from the eighteenth century to recognize this as a science!
London, 1735
“Pick little Christina if you must,
but don’t pick Leila for our team,” a fair-haired adolescent warned her equally
fair younger sister. “She has no powers. She’s useless.”
“But
Uncle Rowland favors her,” the younger girl replied. “He says Leila’s just like
him.”
“That’s
because she’s not like the rest of us,” Diana, the elder, said with an arrogant
toss of her blond curls.
“Leila’s
hair is black, and she has no gifts. She’s not a Malcolm. Even her baby
sisters have more abilities than she does. Let her play on the babies’ side.
They won’t know the difference.”
On the
staircase above, ten-year-old Leila cringed and backed up the way she’d come,
her heart breaking with every step. She’d anticipated the joyous romp of the
scavenger hunt her aunt had arranged. She’d been thrilled to have the company
of her beautiful older cousins with their fascinating abilities to find lost
objects and to paint pictures of what wasn’t there.
She
hadn’t anticipated scorn at her own lack of such gifts.
She’d
known her sister could see odd colors around people that she couldn’t, but
Christina was a baby. No one cared what babies saw, and what good were
colors anyway? Leila was the eldest, and her mama said she was the best little
helper she could have. Her papa called her beautiful. The little ones clamored
for her company.
But her
cousins thought her useless. Wide-eyed with shock, Leila quivered at the
top of the stairs, not fully comprehending her cousin’s antipathy.
Her cousins
thought she wasn’t a Malcolm. She might be adopted. She didn’t
want to be thrown out in the snow and left to die because she didn’t belong
here.
Panicking,
Leila grabbed her black curls and threw a glance over her shoulder to see if
the portly butler might already be bearing down on her, prepared to heave her
out the door. Relieved to see no immediate danger in sight, Leila raced for the
only comfort she knew—her very blond, very Malcolm mother.
Tears
forming at her cousin’s cruel dismissal, Leila rushed into the workshop and
dived into Hermione’s welcoming arms.
“I am
a Malcolm, aren’t I?” she wailed against her mother’s plump bosom. “My hair
will lighten to be just like yours someday, won’t it?”
Sitting
down on a low bench beside a cluster of candle molds and jars of herbs and
fragrances, Hermione wrapped her beautiful firstborn in a hug. “Of course
you’re a Malcolm, dear. You’re just different. You should be proud of
your lovely black hair. Someday men will swoon over you.”
“I don’t
want men to swoon,” Leila declared, tears still in her eyes. “I want to make
people smile like you do with candles that smell like happiness. I want to find
lost things like Diana can. I can do anything I want, can’t I? I’m a Malcolm.”
The last word came out almost as a plea.
Hermione
stroked Leila’s long curls. “It’s up to us to make the most of what we’re
given, dear. You have beauty and grace and intelligence, and someday you will
make some man very happy. Just don’t let that man be an Ives,” she added with a
wry chuckle. “Your ancestors would rise from their graves.”
Momentarily
distracted from her grief, Leila gazed at her mother’s serene features. “What’s
an Ives?”
“Only the
downfall of all Malcolms, dear. We are creatures of nature, and they are
creatures of science. Disaster results when the two come together. But you are
much too young to worry about that now.”
Disinterested
in future disasters, more concerned about the current one, Leila eyed the
glittering array of equipment on her mother’s workbench. Inhaling the bouquet
of scents exuded by the mood-enhancing wax candles and soaps her mother made,
she bit her quivering lip and straightened her shoulders. She understood very
little of the nasty Ives discussion, but she knew she was smart. Smarter than
Diana. She already knew how to play the harpsichord and sing far better than
her older cousin. She could make her father cry when she sang, and smile when
she played.
She had
better things to do than play at a stupid scavenger hunt. Heart bruised but
pride intact, Leila lifted her chin. “I shall go down and see if Papa wishes to
hear me play. I’m much too big for baby games.”
“And take
the chess set to the boys. They always behave better when you smile at them.”
Racing to
do as she’d been told, Leila vowed to smile and sing and make everyone happy,
and prove she was better than her cousins so her mama would love her.
As the
laughter of her sisters and cousins rose from the entrance hall, Leila stopped
at the top of the stairs, scrubbed at a wayward tear, and sniffed back the sob
forming in her throat. It didn’t matter if they wouldn’t play with her. She
didn’t need them.
But she
needed to be a Malcolm. She didn’t want to be left out and all alone.
London,
April 1752
“He’s mine,” Lady Leila Staines
announced, studying the imposing man at the entrance to the ballroom who
scowled at her guests as if he were deciding whose head he might sever first.
Her
sister, Christina, drew in a sharp breath as she followed Leila’s gaze. “Dunstan
Ives? Don’t be absurd. He’s an Ives and a murderer.”
Fascinated,
Leila watched the formidable gentleman dressed entirely in black except for the
immaculate white cravat at his throat. This Ives possessed the power to put her
world back on course. She had to have him. “He’s not a murderer; Ninian says
so.”
“He could
snap your neck with a flick of his wrist,” Christina whispered, watching with
fascinated horror as Dunstan’s companions were announced. “Look, his aura is
black as night!”
Ignoring
her younger sister, Leila observed the entrance of angelic Ninian beside her
handsome husband, Drogo, Earl of Ives and Wystan. Then her gaze followed the
towering man who was dissociating himself from his companions by lingering
behind them. Both Ives men exhibited their scorn of society with their sun-darkened
visages and lack of powdered wigs. The lean earl possessed an air of intellect
and refinement, but his broader brother glowered with hostility as he scanned
the glittering throng. In his tailored coat, with shoulders strong as those of
an ox, Dunstan Ives made the rest of the lace-and-silk bedecked company appear
effeminate.
“I don’t
know about his aura, but his clothes are certainly unfashionably black,” Leila
observed as she studied the brooding looks and powerful physique of the man she
meant to proposition. He was definitely not the usual sort of London gentleman.
But then, Ives men never were.
“He must
still wear black for his wife,” Christina murmured. “I suppose if he did not
murder her, that would be tragically romantic.”
“If he
ever loved her, he fell out of it,” their cousin Lucinda said, hearing this
last as she joined them. “Of course, one shouldn’t assume his lack of love
means he intended harm,” she added.
Since
Celia Ives had been murdered most violently more than a year ago, Leila knew
her cousin hastened to correct any impression that Dunstan might have had
something to do with his wife’s death. Lucinda possessed a gift for revealing
true character through her paintings, and people tended to pay particular
attention to even her most casual comments. She was careful, therefore, not to
misstate her opinion and leave the wrong impression. Like all Malcolms, she had
acquired a keen sense of responsibility along with her gifts.
Gifts
that Leila didn’t possess. All her life, Leila had searched for a similar gift
in herself, but she had never discovered the magic that would prove her to be a
true Malcolm. Still, even with her limited perception, she could see that the
arrogant man standing in the doorway despised the parrot colors of fashion and wore
black out of disdain for the society over which she prevailed. Love and grief
had nothing to do with it.
He was an
Ives, after all—cold and unfeeling.
Fanning
herself as she admired his stature, Leila thought of her own dark attire and
smiled faintly. They were soul mates in matters of dress at least. Black gave
her an authority her age did not, and it set her apart from the common herd so
she might better wield that authority. She was smart, as her mother had always
said. She’d focused her intelligence on understanding society, and had applied
what she learned to make a place for herself and her late husband in
fashionable circles.
At least
she’d made her husband happy.
What her
intelligence couldn’t master was what her family did without effort: see beyond
the obvious, dabble in the supernatural, and help those around them through
those gifts. All her life, Leila had been excluded from the whispered
consultations of her younger siblings and cousins, simply because she could not
see or hear what they could. Behind her, she could hear Christina and Lucinda
whispering about their insights into Dunstan’s character, excluding her as
usual. Despite knowing everyone in this room, she still stood alone, the
solitary cuckoo in her family’s nest.
Until she
discovered some special ability in herself and proved she was a Malcolm, she
would always feel like an ostracized child—alone, unloved, and a failure.
She’d
spent her entire life meeting her family’s expectations of her. She’d married
well, raised her husband’s social and political standing, acquired wealth, made
others happy, if not herself. Widowed now, and finally free of all
expectations, she stood on the brink of opportunity, if she possessed the
courage to take the risk. With the help of an Ives, she might discover who she
really was and of what she was capable.
Leila
allowed a tendril of hope to creep through her usual restraint as she watched
the commanding presence of the tall man in the doorway. Nervously, she waved
her fan, bouncing a loose pin curl in the breeze. After a year of planning and
dreaming, she’d made her choice. All she need do now was approach Dunstan Ives
and state her proposal. Even if he was immune to her charm, he should succumb
to her monetary largesse, and then she would have England’s most learned
agronomist at her disposal.
“He’s an
Ives,” Lucinda whispered in warning, apparently noting the direction of Leila’s
gaze. “Don’t forget what happened to cousin Ninian.”
Leila was
aware of the danger Ives men posed to women, and to Malcolm women in
particular. The attraction between them must be as powerful as legend said if
even Ninian had risked disaster to fall for one of the logical, passionless
men. But Leila was prepared to take her chances with the fire of physical
attraction. Although men habitually flocked around her, she had never felt
passion for them in return.
Her only
dilemma lay in whether she dared retire to the country in the company of a man
whose adulterous wife had been found with her neck snapped. No evidence
confirmed Dunstan’s guilt. None confirmed his innocence, either.
Leila
offered a practiced trill of laughter at her cousin’s warning. “I seduce men,
not the other way around. An Ives is no match for me.”
“Leila,
you cannot tell what he’s feeling as Ninian can,” Christina warned. “He looks
incredibly dangerous.”
“Shall I
go closer and see what I can learn?” Leila snapped her fan closed and,
forgetting everyone else in the room besides Ives, left her sister and cousin.
Progressing
through the crowd of London’s wealthiest and most powerful, she stopped often
to meet and greet her guests, never losing sight of the man she intended to
trap in her net. Mother of goddesses, but he was built like a mountain,
a smoldering one. She chattered and exchanged mindless gossip, but she couldn’t
look away as Dunstan Ives glowered at a footman and ended up with two glasses
of champagne in his huge fists.
“Isn’t
that the Ives who murdered his wife?” one countess whispered. “Honestly, Leila,
even you can’t expect us to acknowledge a murderer!”
“Dear,
dear Betsy.” Leila patted the woman’s gloved hand without paying her much
notice. “I invited your current lover, the father of your son, and your
husband, and I’m still speaking to all four of you. Be a good girl and don’t
spoil my fun.”
She left
the rouged and powdered countess with her mouth open.
“He looks
as if he might murder someone any minute,” Hermione, Marchioness of Hampton,
murmured worriedly, sidling up to Leila and fiddling with the gossamer scarf
about her throat. “I cannot think why you invited him.”
“Because
he is the best agronomist in all of England,” Leila assured her mother. “Even
Father says so. Since Dunstan has come to work for him, the estate has improved
tremendously. Is that not so?”
“Yes, but
your father is a man, dear. It is not at all the same thing. I do wish
you would reconsider offering him a position.”
“But the
opportunity is perfect,” Leila explained. “You know Father means to put Rolly
in charge of the Gloucestershire estate. Rolly loathes Dunstan, says he does
not take orders well. Why should I let Rolly drive him away when I can
have him?” Leila did not slow her progress across the drawing room. Tugging at
shawls and scarves, her mother trailed in her wake.
“Leila,
you know nothing of these things—”
“Ninian
does, and she says he’s innocent.” Ninian was years younger than Leila, but she
possessed a gift of empathy and a talent for healing that had saved lives and
fortunes—including Drogo’s. Ninian was the one her whole family turned to
because she understood things without being told. Leila bowed to her
greater gifts, even as envy devoured her.
“You know
perfectly well that Ninian is not herself when she’s in town with so many
people around to disturb her gift,” Hermione whispered. “She could be wrong
about Dunstan—”
“I’m not
changing my mind, Maman,” Leila said. “He’s mine.”
A sensual
shiver rippled down her spine as she repeated those words at the same moment
that Dunstan turned his brooding gaze on her, and the implication of her
arrogant declaration raised its serpent head.
She
wanted an agricultural expert, not a lover, but Dunstan’s hooded dark eyes and
prominent nose stirred long dormant feelings in her. Uneasy with the sensation,
she reminded herself that no man had ever wielded the power to tempt
her.
Safe
behind a shield of indifference, Leila brushed a kiss on Ninian’s cheek. “How
good of you to come.” Murmuring polite nonsense, she flirted with the
impervious Drogo, then turned the full brunt of her attention on the imposing
man standing slightly distant from his family.
Oh,
my. His presence
hit her with all the force of her mother’s lust-scented candles.
“Black
becomes you, sir,” she murmured, drawing her black-gloved finger down Dunstan’s
lapel, resorting to her practiced role of flirt to hide the sensual impact this
man had on her. Was it her imagination, or did his air of disdain conceal a
slight whiff of loneliness? Perhaps his lack of artificial scent distorted her
perceptions. Fascinating.
“Black’s
not fashionable,” he replied, staring past her powdered curls.
“So
flattering of you to mention that.” She immediately retracted any sympathy she
might have mistakenly offered. “Shall I run upstairs and slip into something
more to your liking? In red, perhaps?”
Dunstan
glanced down at her wide black skirts, then focused his gaze on the expanse of
bosom exposed by her low-cut gown. “Scarlet seems appropriate.”
The
lady’s sensual perfume of roses and jasmine wafted around him, and Dunstan
stiffened. He didn’t want to notice her at all, but she stood taller than most
women, reaching past his chin in her heeled shoes. His gaze fell in direct
contact with her lacy black cap, forcing him to notice how her tight, powdered
curls accentuated her rouged lips and darkened lashes. Despite the white
powder, he knew she was a Malcolm, and she’d have sun-kissed blond hair like
all the rest of her kind, along with eyes that could ensnare and bewitch. He
refused to look down and fall into the trap.
Nodding
curtly in dismissal, ignoring Ninian and Drogo, Dunstan spun on his heel and
strode blindly for what he hoped was the card room.
The
lady’s exotic perfume clung to his senses as he departed, and raw hunger clawed
at his insides.
It had
been that way with Celia.
Never
again. He would put
a bullet through his ear before he became enthralled with another aristocratic,
conniving female.
Especially
a Malcolm. He had enough disaster in his life without courting more.
Women pulled their skirts aside as Dunstan passed. Men scowled. Card
tables emptied when he showed an interest in the play.
The
clawing at his insides became a hot anger he could taste on his tongue. He
didn’t need this pack of rats and jackals. He had only put in an
appearance because Drogo requested it, and he owed his brother far more than he
could ever repay.
Loosening
his confining neckcloth, Dunstan located the door to the balcony and stepped
outside to let the familiar elements feed his soul. He’d never been a part of
the fashionable London scene that his wife had adored—the scene that should
have been his by birthright. Instead, his spoiled earl of a father had chosen
to hide Dunstan’s rustic mother and her uncouth sons in the country while the
earl dallied in London with his aristocratic mistress.
His
father’s neglect had taught Dunstan to live without society. He’d grown up in
the village vicarage of his mother’s brother, had learned from his maternal
grandfather to respect the land and nature. London’s decadence had never called
to him.
Of
course, if he’d made even the slightest effort to enter society, Celia might be
alive today.
Guilt
joined the cold damp of the London fog permeating Dunstan’s bones. Behind him,
through the brilliantly lit glass, he could hear the poignant notes of violin
and flute. Couples executed elegant dance steps and whirled about in colorful
silks, laughing, flirting, arranging trysts. Celia had become a part of that
world without him.
His
innards writhed in an agony of discomfort. He had no place here. His abilities
related to the land, not people. Experience had taught him he could only hurt
people.
The land
his grandfather had left him was little more than a useless bog he couldn’t
afford to drain, but Drogo had offered a few acres of solid ground for
Dunstan’s experimental crop—a fodder that would revolutionize farming by
growing large enough to feed a flock of sheep all winter. This was the hope his
future turned on, not this glittering artificial world.
He didn’t
have time to plant the seeds before returning to his tedious duties as estate
agent for the Marquess of Hampton. The marquess’s heir demanded his presence in
Gloucestershire two days hence. Even dealing with the marquess’s foolish son,
Rolly, was far better than enduring an entire city of brainless fribbles.
Leaning
against the cold balcony rail, Dunstan fretted over the lack of time to plant
his valuable crop, concerned about leaving it in the dubious care of Drogo’s
steward.
Now that
his brother had married and produced a son, Dunstan was no longer heir to an
earldom or the entailed estate he’d thought would someday be his. He must find
his own land and his own place in the world. He couldn’t expect Drogo to
support him for a lifetime.
His
brother had paid Dunstan’s way through school, provided for his illegitimate
son, and loaned him enough to keep Celia in style. After Celia’s death, Drogo
had paid the debts she’d left behind. He’d even offered to take on the expense
of investigating Celia’s murder, but Dunstan had insisted that responsibility
must be his. Until his name was cleared, there was little sense in wasting
money on improving his boggy land.
Voices at
the door intruded on his musings, prompting him to retreat into the shadows.
“The man
should be hanged,” a deep voice uttered in vicious tones. “We hang paupers for
stealing bread. It’s no wonder the lower classes don’t trust their betters if
they perceive us as getting away with murder.”
“There’s
no evidence on which to try him,” a calmer voice said. “There’s no call for
Ives to shove him in our faces, though. The man hasn’t the political sense of a
squirrel.”
A flame
flickered, and the aroma of a rich cigar drifted through the air. Dunstan
cursed beneath his breath and considered his choices. Leaping off a balcony
onto a flagstone terrace would either crack every bone in his body or split
every stone in the terrace.
The first
voice grunted. “Ives doesn’t give a fig for politics. Shoving his criminal of a
brother down our throats will ruin him.”
“Polite
society has standards,” the second voice agreed. “Ives have always been a
ramshackle lot, at any account. Shut them all out, keep them away from our
daughters, and the world will be a better place.”
The smug
satisfaction in the lout’s voice decided the matter. Dunstan had no doubt that
Drogo could fight his own battles, and that his witch of a wife could hex the
entire city if she were so inclined, but Dunstan wouldn’t allow the taint of
his reputation to harm his younger brothers, either the legitimate or the
illegitimate ones. With no titles or wealth, they would have to fight the
painful battle for survival with several handicaps. Dunstan refused to add one
more.
With what
he considered to be remarkable aplomb, he stepped into the light pouring
through the glass doors. Towering over the elegantly bewigged and silk-coated
gentlemen who stood frozen at the balustrade, Dunstan plucked the cigar from
the speaker’s mouth, dropped the lighted tobacco on the man’s silver-buckled
shoe, and mashed it with his massive foot.
“Polite
society might consider adopting Ives standards,” Dunstan said in his most
courteous tone. “We crush stupidity and ignorance when they stand in the way.”
With one last grind of his heel on lordly toes, Dunstan stalked off.
“Leila,
Leila—hurry! I think your Ives has murdered someone!”
Leila
stiffened as Christina pushed through the crowd of suitors surrounding her.
Trusting her sister’s ability to detect strong auras, she didn’t doubt there
was a problem. She was merely annoyed that she didn’t possess the ability to
see it herself.
Hearing
the commotion near the balcony doors, she directed her steps toward the
gathering crowd.
“I say,
let us hang Ives from the ramparts!” the younger son of an aging roué announced
gaily, following in Leila’s wake, as did his fellows. “It’s not done, murdering
a guest of Lady Leila’s.”
“Lord
John, you . . .” Have the wits of a gander, she refrained
from saying. She hadn’t climbed this far in society by insulting those who had
helped put her there. “Go find Drogo, will you? He’ll listen to you.” Appeal to
the young man’s pride. He had too much of it, but she could put it to good use.
That was how she’d gained her position, by knowing the weaknesses of
others.
“Of
course, my lady.” Full of self-importance, Lord John sauntered off, his closest
gambling companion, Sir Barton Townsend, trailing along for security.
“Grown
men, yet they’re still children,” Leila muttered to herself. What she would
give for a man. She’d thought she’d married one when she’d wed Theodore.
He’d been forty at the time, and it had seemed a reasonable assumption. But
he’d been more child than his school-age nephew.
Henry
Wickham stayed at her side, reeking of determination. A man of shallow
character, he had his own grievances against Dunstan. She did not mistake his
company as tenacity in her defense.
“This is
a family matter, sir,” she informed him haughtily, keeping an eye on the scene
outside the balcony door. Drogo had arrived. And Ninian. Where was Dunstan?
“Find Viscount Staines and apprise him of events.”
That
offered Wickham a dilemma—to cultivate her interest or that of her nephew, the
much more impressionable young recipient of her husband’s title. Wickham
surprised her by actually choosing the wiser course. Leila smiled when he
disappeared in search of the new viscount.
Her late
husband hadn’t been particularly disappointed that she hadn’t produced a child
to whom he could pass on the title. He and his nephew were two of a kind, and
he’d known the odds against a Malcolm bearing a boy when he married her.
Leila had
been disappointed, though. Not bearing a child had been one more proof of her
failure as a Malcolm.
Despite
her lack of Malcolm abilities, she knew she possessed an astute understanding
of human nature. If Dunstan wasn’t in the midst of the shouting on the balcony,
she knew precisely where to find him—providing he had not already escaped.
Damn the
man. She couldn’t afford to let him get away.
Veering
from her original path, Leila swept past velvet draperies into the
conservatory, a room providing a second exit from the balcony.
Humid
warmth enveloped her as she opened the latticework doors. The servants had lit
a few wall sconces, but the towering plants threw the jungle into heavy shadow.
“I am not
a patient woman,” she announced to the greenery. “You can’t turn my party into
the talk of the Season, then lurk in the shadows until we all go away.”
“I’m not
lurking.”
Indeed,
he could not. Dunstan Ives was much too broad in the shoulders to
disguise himself as a palm or a lemon tree. She’d misjudged the density of the
shadows.
She
shivered in apprehension at the sepulchral sound of his voice. She should have
recognized the scent of bone-deep isolation permeating the chamber, but she’d
become too accustomed to her own. She entered, letting the door close behind
her.
“I am
debating wasting another cigar by shoving it up their arses.” Blowing a curl of
smoke, he leaned against a sturdy table, arms crossed, staring upward toward
the glass ceiling. “Is that jasmine?” he asked, gesturing toward a towering
vine with his obnoxious tobacco.
“Yes, it
makes a delightful perfume.” Gathering her panniered skirt to navigate the
narrow path between them, Leila sucked in a gasp at the impact of raw male fury
and an underlying current of—lust?—that he exuded. How could a man who looked
so cold stir her with such heat?
“What
cigar and whose arse?” she demanded, ignoring her passing fancy.
“No idea.
Obnoxious old fart. Why aren’t you out there with the rest of them, pouring
witchy unguent on his wounds?”
“If I had
any idea what the devil you were talking about, I might be. It seemed prudent
to locate you first and be certain you didn’t pull the house down around my
ears.”
“Or that
they didn’t form a lynch mob and hang me from the chandelier?” he asked
shrewdly, turning in her direction.
“That
caused me no concern whatsoever.”
It did
now. She had wanted to use this man’s knowledge, but his isolation reverberated
upon the untried chords of her own heart. Leila grappled with the odd
inclination to comfort his wounded soul—then decided Dunstan Ives had no soul
and was quite capable of handling anything that came his way.
He shrugged
and ground his cigar against the dirt in a pot. “Where’s your bevy of
cicisbeos? Aren’t they afraid I’ll snap your neck?”
Amazingly
perceptive of him, but she would not admit it. “I threatened them with
hysterics if they did not leave me alone. Most gentlemen are instantly cowed by
females who disturb their equanimity.”
“Not
cowed. Impatient. Blathering and dramatics are irrational and ineffective. If
you will give my regards to my brother and his wife, I believe I shall depart
for the country, where I belong.” He pushed away from the table and loomed over
her, waiting for her to step aside.
“Not
yet,” she commanded.
Leila
shivered at the masculine aromas flooding her senses as he crossed his arms
over his massive chest and glared at her. Someone—most likely Ninian—had tucked
a carnation into his lapel. The combination of his male musk and the sweet
perfume unleashed an unexpected hunger in her. In imitation of him, she crossed
her arms beneath her breasts and shut out the sensation.
“I want
you to work for me,” she said, going straight to the point.
He
remained impassive.
For the
first time in memory, anxiety enveloped her. Wearing the guise of society
coquette, she had persuaded dukes and princes to do as she wished—or rather, to
do as her husband wished. She had never attempted to act on something she alone
wanted, because she’d never thought that what she wanted was attainable.
Now, with
the opportunity of a lifetime at her fingertips, she was terrified of losing
her one and only chance.
“I need a
garden.” How could she explain that she didn’t want just any garden? And
that she didn’t want it for the usual reasons? “I need flowers that no one else
possesses. I want to propagate varieties that exist only in my head.”
He
snorted. “Female heads might be fertile ground for cotton, but flowers do
better in soil.”
She
tightened her lips against a spurt of anger at his insult. She might have
laughed at his riposte had he been another man or had this been another
occasion, but it was her future he scorned. “You will discover my head contains
far more than cotton. I wish to grow flowers that produce special scents. I
will start with varieties I’ve already located, but I need someone who knows
how to propagate them. My father says you are an expert.”
“With
vegetables. Flowers have no purpose.”
Mule-headed
wretched stone wall of a . . . wall. For whatever reason,
Dunstan Ives had erected a barrier between himself and the world. She hadn’t
attained her position as society’s leading matron by ignoring the nuances of male
behavior. A man who resisted had something to hide. In Dunstan’s case, she
would prefer not to know what, but she needed the blasted man too much to allow
his boneheaded stubbornness to stand in her way.
“You may
grow all the vegetables you desire,” she offered generously.
Had he
just drawn in his breath, as if she had touched a raw nerve? She would have
explored the possibility, but he stepped back, his emotions impenetrable once
again. She flirted with danger by stepping closer, running her fingers up and
down his chest. “Or are you holding out for a more . . . personal
offer?”
She had
no idea what possessed her to say such a thing, but his heat nearly set her
gloves on fire.
Though
she could barely see his face in the darkness, Leila felt him stiffen, and
seeking the crack in his armor, she pressed her case. “You may name your
terms,” she said in a seductive tone that had brought generals to their knees,
“as long as they can be measured in coin.” She paused for effect, then took a
gamble. “Unless you prefer something less tangible than coin.”
He
removed her hand from his chest with a strength that could have broken bones
and with a gentleness that didn’t.
“That’s
about the most inane thing anyone has said to me all evening. Go away before I
chew you into little bits and spit you out.” Dunstan flung her hand away and
retreated from her reach. He’d been without a woman for so long, he’d forgotten
their alluring scents and softness, the sway and rustle of tempting curves, the
hot bloodlust that throbbed through him when the need was on him.
He
couldn’t afford passion any more than he could afford women. Whatever she
offered, she would take too much in return.
“I am not
an empty-headed twit,” the lady replied with scorn. “You can’t frighten me with
exaggerated threats and intimidating stances. If you are the best agronomist in
all England, then I need your services.”
Intimidating
stances. Dunstan
almost chuckled at the way the irritating scrap of fluff stood there with her
hands on her hips in her own version of intimidation.
“I am
the best agronomist in England, but I am already employed,” he avowed. “The
last person in the world I’d work for is a Malcolm witch.”
Even
though he could barely see the lady in the darkness, she was still working her
witchy Malcolm wiles on him. A part of him wanted to show her he was far more
than the best agronomist in all England. He wanted to prove he was first and
foremost a man—but that pathway led to hell, and he refused to take it, no
matter what enticements she offered. Name his own terms! Gad, the woman
had parsnips for brains if she didn’t know the power of her own seductiveness.
Lady
Leila had the most luscious curves created in the eyes of God and mankind. He
was far better off out of her presence, and she was far better off
understanding with whom she toyed.
Dunstan
wrapped his hands around her corseted waist and lifted her to the potting
bench, knocking plants out of his way with her wide panniers.
She
gasped and got in a well-placed kick with her heeled shoes, but Dunstan merely
grunted and staggered away.
Name
his own terms,
indeed. She would scream and have his head cut off if he told her exactly what
terms he’d choose.
Wiltshire,
April 1752
The last person in the world I’d work for is a Malcolm witch. Famous last words. Taunting a
Malcolm was as witless as teasing dragons.
Cursing
and wiping the filth of the road from his brow, Dunstan halted at a crossroad
near Swindon and let his aging mount nibble grass while he debated his route.
Dismissed. The best damned agronomist in the
land, and he’d been dismissed. For insubordination. Imagine that. And
not another fat-headed lordling on the horizon seemed interested in hiring him.
Dunstan
returned to pondering the crossroad. He could take the route east and crawl
back to Drogo, but he’d rather eat his own foot than ask for help. The fiasco
in London had proven he was a detriment to his noble brother as well as to his
own son, whom he was determined to take under his wing one day.
Years
ago, Celia had been horrified when he’d suggested bringing his by-blow,
Griffith, into their household. Celia’s death and the subsequent rumors had
effectively destroyed his hopes of developing any filial relationship with the
boy. Until Dunstan’s innocence was established, Griffith was better off with
his mother.
Dunstan
might be a failure at his social obligations, but he knew he possessed an
encyclopedic knowledge of experimental agricultural techniques. He wasn’t too
proud to work, provided someone would let him.
The
cursed Malcolm witch had seen to it that no one would let him.
You
may name your terms.
Had she really said that? Was it a trap?
He glared
up the road leading west, toward Bath and the Staines estate. He had no proof
that Lady Leila was responsible for his current situation. After Celia and
London, his reputation could be the reason that no man would hire him. But it
had been the lady’s half brother who had sacked him, even though Dunstan had
tripled the estate’s profits over the past year. It certainly looked like the
lady’s doing to him.
Of
course, to be fair, Rolly was a prig of the worst sort, and Dunstan might have
let the lordling know that a time or two. He didn’t tolerate fools gladly.
Dunstan
leaned against his horse’s neck and considered his alternatives. His saddlebag
still contained the experimental turnip seeds. He could crawl back to his
brother—and the few acres Drogo had promised him—and never earn enough to pay
his recently hired investigator to seek the truth of Celia’s death, much less
make a life for his son.
Or he
could turn toward Bath and accept the lady’s offer.
His
terms. The
possibilities intrigued him.
He had
catered to Celia’s whims for years. Like a blithering fool, he’d showered her
with fripperies and jewels he could ill afford, placating her with the dream of
someday becoming a countess since Drogo had no heir. He hoped she would be
patient and learn to love him.
The
instant Drogo had married and had a son, Celia had danced off to London and a
round of lovers, and never looked back.
Dunstan
would rather rot in the Tower than play carpet for a woman’s dainty feet again.
He
particularly wouldn’t play the part of carpet for a seductive Malcolm. Lady
Leila was too attractive and determined. She could walk all over a man, if he
let her. Then again, no one said he had to let her.
She’d
said he could name his own terms.
Crawl or
fight. Friggin’ hell of a choice.
Reining
his gelding to the right, he set his jaw and hunkered down for the battle
ahead.
Dunstan
pounded on the door of Lady Leila’s rural mansion until a stiff-necked butler
answered. Accepting Dunstan’s hat, the servant led him toward the back as if
he’d been expected. The witch had probably read of his arrival in her tea
leaves.
Entering
what was obviously her late husband’s masculine study, he watched as the woman
he thought of as the Black Widow paced before a sunny window. Or at least, he
assumed it was she, given her black skirts. The bright light threw her features
into shadow, and he had deliberately avoided looking closely at her in London.
At first,
this female appeared every bit as tight-laced and haughty as the woman he
remembered from the ball. But noticing the way she clasped and unclasped her
hands, he sensed in her an uncertainty that he hadn’t discerned earlier.
“I’ve
come to inquire if the estate agent position is still available.” Clenching his
jaw, Dunstan focused on the cap covering her tightly pinned and powdered hair,
avoiding any contact with her provocative Malcolm eyes. He didn’t believe in
fairy tales, but if even Drogo could be tempted by a Malcolm witch, he would
take no chance that there was truth in the legendary attraction between Malcolm
women and Ives men. He figured the legendary disasters between their families
were to be expected of any Ives who was foolish enough to fall for a witch.
He wished
the devil she’d sit down.
“As I
told you before, I need someone who is willing to help me develop new strains
of flowers, ones grown for fragrance,” she announced, as if they were
continuing the conversation begun in her home weeks ago.
Her
perfume, which he remembered from their earlier encounter, smelled sweeter than
the jasmine in her conservatory. He concentrated all the more on the lady’s
white curls.
“I know
nothing of flower breeding.” He tried not to bite off his stubborn tongue for
flapping when it shouldn’t. He needed this position.
“Learn.”
Advancing from behind the desk, she gestured with long, beringed fingers at
shelves of books behind him. “I wish to start with propagating roses and
progress to the development of other varieties. I mean to produce perfumes from
my own distillations.”
Standing
there beside him, she absently patted his arm. “I have discovered that growing
things is very”—her voice caught—“difficult.”
Beneath
the sizzle of her caress, Dunstan lost the power to focus on the hitch in her
voice. He had the distant notion that she’d just hired him without question or
interview, but the headiness of her perfume and her stirring touch blurred his
brain.
As if
sensing that, the lady tilted her coiffed head to regard him carefully, and
Dunstan steeled himself, refusing to look down any further than the cap beneath
his nose. If he tried hard, he could watch the robin in the bush outside the
window.
“Flowers
produce no income,” he insisted, gritting his teeth. “My usual salary is based
on the income I produce. How will you pay for my services?”
He
thought she glared at him before she swung on her high heels and click-clacked
away.
“I
believe I told you to name your price,” she said. “I have use of my late husband’s
entire estate. Take a higher percentage of sheep sales for your salary to make
up for the non-income-producing acreage.”
Use of
her husband’s estate?
That did not sound very permanent. Dunstan debated questioning her, but he had
no real choice. He needed money. His seeds needed immediate planting. He was
here. She had land. It galled him to be obligated to a woman, but he knew he
could prevent some other man from robbing her blind while doubling her
income—if she’d allow it.
“I can do
that,” he said, testing the waters. “But I’ll need a field of my own for my
experiments.”
“Take
whatever fields you need, drain fens, plant crops, whatever you wish outside of
the flower gardens. Start as soon as you like.” Leila swung around to see how
the arrogant son of an earl accepted her offer. She tried not to clench her
fists and show her despair. This past month living in the country had sorely
tried her patience. The few flowers she’d planted were dead or dying. She
needed Dunstan Ives and his knowledge more than she’d imagined.
Standing
in front of her accounting desk, frowning at her as if she were some form of
insect, Dunstan seemed to steal all the air in the room. He wore muddy boots,
his tailored wool coat and vest were unfastened in the warmth of the spring sun,
and he vibrated with male energy and hostility. She opened a casement to let a
spring breeze enter, but the masculinity of his fragrance made him impossible
to ignore. Restlessly, she picked up her fan and opened and closed it while
pacing behind her desk.
These
past weeks had taught her how little practical knowledge she possessed, despite
all her reading. Dunstan’s unexpected arrival had revived her hope, but now she
understood the difficulty of dealing with the strong attraction of an Ives. How
annoying that she must learn to face temptation at this late date.
If only
she could surrender her role as a pillar of society to explore these
feelings . . . But circumstances didn’t allow that yet. She
still had appearances to keep up and her authority to maintain, or her nephew
and his fellows would run all over her.
“I’ll
need a house with an adequate cook and housekeeper,” Dunstan asserted.
Leila
lifted an inquiring eyebrow, but the thorny Ives refused to look at her. More
experimentation in managing his prickly exterior was called for.
“The
farmhouse down the lane is already prepared,” she answered, testing her strange
perception of this angry man. “Have my butler give you directions. I’ve ordered
more roses and will need to begin planning their location soon. I’ll expect you
to return this evening so we may discuss the best approach.”
Dunstan
rested an insolent shoulder against the bookshelves and crossed his arms over
his chest. Thin lines creased either side of his set mouth, and she could read
refusal in his dark eyes as if it were printed there. Therein lay the problem
of hiring an aristocrat to do a servant’s job. They simply didn’t know their
place.
In the
sunlight, she thought him wickedly fine. His well-endowed nose suited his
rugged features. Blue-black highlights gleamed in his raven hair, and a frown
added to his dangerous appeal. He might not be handsome in the conventional
sense, but he possessed the Ives maleness that spun a woman’s senses.
She
shuddered and turned away. She dared not place herself in the power of a man
again, and definitely not one as commanding as this one.
“As you
suggested,” he answered her calmly, “I’ll ask a higher percentage to compensate
for non-income-producing fields. That could be costly, so your paying crops
should be planted first. The roses must wait.”
She could
get angry and crisp him to ashes. Instead, she donned the deliberate smile with
which she’d conquered society. Granting him a smoldering look from beneath
lowered lashes, an expression that always conned men to do her bidding, Leila
glided closer, until she could tell he was holding his breath. She could smell
the sensual awareness on him. Seductively scratching a manicured fingernail
over his jabot, she detected the rapid beat of his heart.
“The rose
garden,” she insisted, “comes first. If your income does not equal what my
father and Rolly paid you by year’s end, I will provide the difference as a
salary.”
“I’ll
study roses,” he agreed, not really agreeing. He abruptly turned his back on
her and scanned her bookshelves. “I’ll take a few of these books with me,” he
added, “and go back to the inn to fetch my things.”
He
selected a few sturdy volumes and walked off.
May
the goddesses rain toads upon his head!
Leila
wasn’t certain if she should laugh with relief or fling books at his stiff
spine as he departed.
She
wanted to hate the man for being so obdurate. Instead, she longed to be just
like him. She wanted to know her abilities and where they could take her with
full confidence, as he did.
Releasing
her disappointment and puzzlement, Leila let an almost giddy excitement renew
her resolve. Dunstan Ives, the best agronomist in all England, had come to
work for her.
Finally
she had what she needed to explore her interest in scents. She could only pray
that her explorations would lead to the discovery of her Malcolm gift.
The
extraordinary gifts her sisters and cousins possessed all related to their more
common talents. Lucinda had the gift of revealing character through portrait
painting. Felicity, the bookworm, picked up images of the past from old maps
and letters.
Surely, surely,
her own gift must be related to her talent for scents. Perhaps someday she
might discover in herself a gift capable of saving a life, as Ninian’s had
saved her husband.
Ripping
off her cap and shaking a cloud of powder from her tightly pinned curls, Leila
massaged her scalp and sighed in relief. Now, if she could take off this damned
corset and gown and slip into the fields to see how her newly planted roses had
fared through the night . . .
Glancing
out the window, she watched Dunstan ride away, and an odd excitement possessed
her. Could it be possible to work side by side with a man who might respect her
for her talents rather than for her position in society?
Then
again, how could she possibly work with an Ives? Whom was she fooling?
A
carriage rolled up the drive, and running a hand through her hair to loosen it,
she wrinkled her nose in distaste. She didn’t want to put her hair up again for
visitors. She’d invited several of her younger sisters and cousins to stay, but
that wasn’t one of her family’s coaches.
She
crossed to the study door to listen as the butler greeted her unexpected guest.
She heard no feminine laughter, only a single male monotone. One of her
suitors, then, hoping to beat the competition. Fie on him.
If that
brat of a nephew of her husband’s had some idea that she would marry and thus
give up this land as stipulated in her husband’s will, he had another lesson or
two to learn. She intended to wear widow’s weeds into eternity.
She
hurried up the back stairs to her chamber and rang for her maid. “Who has
arrived?” she demanded as soon as the maid entered.
“Lord
John Albemarle, milady.” She sounded scandalized, as well she should be. It was
highly improper for a gentleman to call without a family member in attendance.
“Lord
John, the presumptuous twit.” Leila glared at her reflection as the maid
brushed off her black gown and pinned up her hair again. She hated black, hated
powder, hated the trappings of this woman she’d become to suit her husband. But
she wore the guise for good reason. It gave her the authority she needed to
wield her wealth and assets, and the approval of society required to do so.
“He is
most handsome, my lady,” the maid whispered.
“And he’s
gambled away this quarter’s allowance,” Leila replied in irritation, well
knowing the company the gentleman kept. She hoped her nephew avoided the gaming
tables that Lord John frequented.
“Ahh, but
a gentleman like that could be trés amusing. And what pretty children he
would give you.”
Leila
ignored the swift shaft of pain to her heart and, feigning lightness, replied,
“Oh, I’m much too busy for children.”
She
allowed Marie to pin her hair beneath the black lace cap. Lord John was the
spoiled younger son of a nobleman and would not leave without a personal
reprimand. His kind always thought their charms irresistible.
Brushing
away her maid’s offer of earbobs and necklace to match her rings, Leila
descended the front stairs, without hurry. She’d performed the role of society
beauty for so many years, she could do it in her sleep.
She’d
disdained panniers for this encounter, and merely brushed her petticoats aside
as she entered the guest parlor. Lord John leapt to his feet, made an elegant
bow, and offered his gloved hand.
“My lady,
London has been forlorn without you.”
“Fiddle-faddle.
What are you doing here, sir?” She removed her hand from his. He smelled of
horses and gaming tables, odors she found particularly repugnant at the moment.
She produced a handkerchief to ward off the scent. “Did my nephew not tell you
I have tired of the city and wish to rusticate a while?”
“I could
not bear the thought of another evening without your presence. The lure of the
countryside, and you, drew me onward.”
So, the
young viscount had not given him the message. The little brat. He was up to his
childish pranks already. She would never be rid of these encroaching mushrooms.
“I am sorry you have come so far without reason,” she said. “My sisters have
not arrived to entertain you. But I understand Bath is lively. Perhaps you
could seek lodging there.”
“Do not
send me away so soon,” he pleaded. “I will be all that is circumspect until
your family arrives. Let us take time to know each other better.”
Marie was
right—he was a handsome man. Beneath his elegant wig, Lord John revealed a
high, intelligent forehead, eyes of pleasing bronze, and curved lips one could
contemplate with pleasure. She had dallied an evening or two tasting those
lips, but they had not inspired her to more. In fact, his fawning courtship had
shown her the shallowness of the seductive powers she’d wielded these last
years.
“Remember
my heritage, my lord,” she said. “My father may be a marquess, but my mother is
a Malcolm. I know you far better than you know me.”
She rarely
flaunted her ancestry. Her husband had frowned upon it. Most men didn’t wish to
be allied with a family that was commonly rumored to include witches, but
Malcolms were wealthy and powerful, and men couldn’t resist the alliance any
more than they could like it.
It was a
measure of Lord John’s desperation that he hesitated only briefly. “I do not
court your family,” he informed her boldly. “It is you I desire. Let me beg
just a few days of your time.”
He kissed
the back of her hand and gazed upon her soulfully, as if he truly meant the
depth of his devotion. Had she been an innocent eighteen, she might have
believed him.
The loss
of that innocence pained her, but it was too late for regret. She’d chosen to
do her duty as a Malcolm should. Although she’d failed to produce more
Malcolms, she’d accomplished the main objective of adding to the family
coffers. Now that that duty had been fulfilled, she needn’t marry again.
Leila
removed her hand and rang for the butler. “Homer will show you out. I believe
there is time to reach Bath before nightfall. It was good of you to stop and
visit, and if you will post your direction after you are situated, I will see
that you receive any invitations we offer this summer. Good day, my lord.”
She held
her capped head high, clasped her fingers in the folds of her black silk, and
remained inflexible while the butler escorted her guest to the front doors.
With Lord
John gone, the house echoed in emptiness.
Her nose
twitched in irritation at the scent of horses and leather and cowardice
lingering in the air after he departed.
It was
almost sunset. She could slip into the garden to fill her senses with fresh
fragrances and erase the stench of decadence. The most recently planted roses
had been healthy last time she looked.
Flinging off
her cap and shaking loose the pins for the second time that day, Leila raced up
the stairs, gleefully anticipating the sight of those first rosebuds.
“Damnation.”
Garbed in
an old red wool gown left from her unmarried days, Leila collapsed on the muddy
ground in the middle of a garden of ruined rosebushes, fighting back tears.
“Hellfire.”
Row after
row of distorted rose leaves and withered buds stretched out around her.
Propping her elbows on her knees, she sought every curse word she knew.
It seemed
the only appropriate response to this latest in a succession of disasters. The
horses had eaten her lavender seedlings last week. The geraniums had been
frosted upon the week before that. Mites had infected the seedlings in the
greenhouse. And now, her precious roses were dying.
She
swiped furiously at a tear trickling down her cheek. “Bloody damn hell,” she
continued in such a tone that even her cat looked askance at her. “My gift has
to be related to fragrances, Jehoshaphat. I can tell the scent of a Celsiane
rose from a Celestial, a damask from an alba. And if Maman’s gift is for
creating happiness with scented candles, I don’t see why I can’t do the same or
more.”
Jehoshaphat
jumped in her lap, crumpling the dead rose leaf in her hand, the useless product
of years of study. Leila swallowed a sob, and feeling cast adrift on stormy
waters, she stroked her only companion.
She’d
spent the empty days of her marriage examining every rose in England so that
when the opportunity arose, she would know the varieties required to create the
fragrances that danced in her mind. She’d kept notebooks, written down names
and gardeners, and researched growing habits, pretending that someday she would
have a chance to use her knowledge and ease the pent-up frustration of being a
useless nonentity in her own family. Every time she flashed another false smile
as she spun around a ballroom, she thought about the scents she could create
from the flowers she studied, and imagined how she might bring joy to people’s
lives.
With
every blink of her eyelashes, she had longed to rip away her social mask and
reveal the woman inside, weeping to get out.
These
gardens were the life she’d never lived; the roses were the children she would
never bear. And now they were dying. Something new and precious inside
her withered with them.
“Friggin’
filth.” Feeling another tear escaping, Leila set the cat aside and dug at the
roots of a plant, trying to discover some sign of life. But there was no sign
of anything she could understand. She didn’t know enough. All her book
knowledge and learning were for naught.
Pounding
the ground with her fists, she shouted, “Hell’s bells!” At least out here in
the privacy of her garden, she had the freedom to curse and rail at the
heavens.
She
smacked at a wayward tear and choked back despair.
Perhaps
she was an anti-witch. Perhaps her every touch brought death instead of life.
Maybe she really wasn’t a Malcolm.
Horror
struck her at the possibility. She would not think that. Ever.
She
scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, smearing her face with mud.
“I just want to be useful,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet.
She
refused to believe she was without any ability at all. She knew she had
a talent for scents. Her sisters loved the ones she’d created for them before
she married. Perhaps she could buy the flower bases from other growers.
But other
growers were simpleminded jingle-brains who didn’t know how to pick what flower
under which full moon, and they mixed varieties and scents indiscriminately. She
wanted everything to be perfect.
Looking
at her pitiful rows of distorted roses, she felt panic plucking at her
heartstrings.
She’d
married a man who could give her this fairyland setting of farmland, and then
he hadn’t let her plant it. She’d ignored his objections, and Teddy had run his
hounds and horses through her tender plants. She’d moved her flowers elsewhere,
and he’d ordered those acres turned to sheep. She’d been frustrated in every
way by her husband, and now it seemed that even nature had turned against her.
She
grabbed her hated black curls, tugged, and scowled at the threatening sky. In
response, thunder rumbled in the distance.
She
wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t. Now that Dunstan Ives had arrived, she
would pay him to do what she could not. She would risk whatever spell Ives men
had over Malcolm women to find the gift that she must possess.
Wiping
her hands on her skirts, she stalked from the field to escape the approaching
storm.
Climbing
the stile near the road, she watched a rider top the crest of the hill,
silhouetted against the backdrop of boiling thunderheads. Cloak flowing over
wide shoulders, thick dark hair swept back by the wind to reveal a square jaw,
he appeared to be lord of all he surveyed.
Dunstan
Ives.
Now,
there was a throat she’d like to slit—a nice, strong throat. If he’d only taken
the position when she’d first offered it, these disasters might have been
averted.
But no,
the goddesses forbid that a proud and worldly man submit to the command of a
lowly female.
The
servants had informed her that he’d moved into the steward’s cottage. He must
have been out surveying the land he meant to plant without consulting her.
Hands on
hips, thinking bloodthirsty thoughts about her new hire, Leila watched
Dunstan’s progress with a far higher degree of interest than he deserved.
He kicked
his mount to a gallop down the hill, apparently attempting to outrace the
approaching storm. Surely he was not riding back to tell her he could not take
the position after all.
More
likely, the prancing jackass had just viewed her blighted gardens and come to
rub her nose in failure.
Letting
the wind catch her black curls and blow them off her face, Leila waited to hear
his opinion of her multifarious disasters.
Lightning
struck in the distance, and thunder crackled. If Dunstan had been a true
gentleman, he would have offered her a ride back to the house before the storm
broke. But the all-male households of Ives men offered few gentle influences.
Barbarians, the lot of them. The damned man was practically upon her and hadn’t
slowed his mount yet.
Her red
skirt billowed in a sudden gust of wind. Another crack of thunder rolled across
the sky. Dunstan’s horse whinnied in fear and balked. Leila admired the man’s
skill in bringing the huge gelding under control.
Reining
in his frightened mount, Dunstan finally looked at her as she stood on top of
the stile, wind whipping her hair and skirt—until a stronger burst of wind and
a crack of thunder blended with an ominous snap above her head. Leila caught
his look of horror but didn’t have time to react before the branch whipped
across her shoulders. With a scream, she lost her footing and plunged forward.
The horse
reared, and Dunstan, reaching out to catch her, lost his balance just as the
cloud burst open, unleashing a torrential rain. With a yelp, he rolled on his
shoulder and landed in the lane with Leila on top of him.
He lay
still, spread-eagled in the mud, staring up at the clouded sky, rain pouring in
rivulets down his chiseled cheekbones, mixing with the dirt in his raven-black
hair. Sprawled across his sturdy chest, Leila thought she’d killed him.
Frantically,
she slapped both sides of his jaw, trying to jar him back to life. She didn’t
have the slightest notion what she should do. She just knew this man exuded the
most exciting aromas she’d ever known in her life, and she needed the
wretch. “You can’t die on me now,” she yelled into the wailing wind. “Stop
playacting and get up. Get up!”
Slowly,
his gaze swiveled to focus on her. She knew the instant she had his attention.
The element of lust shot sky high. Fascinated, she didn’t bother moving from
her unladylike position across his chest.
“I am
up,” he said solemnly, although with a touch of bewilderment. “I daresay if you
would care to oblige by moving a little lower, I’ll be more up than I’ve
ever been in my life.”
Heat
suffused her face and spread lower. Annoyed, Leila smacked his face again, but
he only smiled with the dazed look of a man who’d been unexpectedly offered
heaven. The wretch was absolutely irresistible, even if he was an accursed
Ives. Daringly, she propped her elbows on his broad chest and inspected him as
if she were a common wench and he, her inamorata. “I think I’ve cracked your
brainbox.”
“I doubt
that’s any cause for alarm.” His glance fell to her soaked woolen bodice.
“Maybe I had to hit bottom before I could look up. Are you all right? Did the
branch hurt you?”
Leila
tried not to laugh. Surely, she’d rattled his brains, at the very least. This
was a side of the brooding Dunstan Ives she’d never imagined. Perhaps he was
not entirely all male arrogance and prickly thorns.
She
wriggled experimentally, and his sinewy arm shot out to wrap around her waist
and hold her still. Heat and strength poured into her, and she eyed him with
some measure of awe. “My, you’re a brawny one,” she said teasingly.
“Is that
rain, or are we lying under a waterfall?” He squinted skyward again. “I suppose
in a countryside where red ravens swoop from the trees, one could have
waterfalls from the sky.”
She
laughed aloud at that. Minutes ago, she’d been feeling miserably sorry for
herself, but all that had changed with a bolt of lightning. Hope filled her
fickle heart with joy, even if she was lying on top of a madman in a muddy lane
during a torrential downpour.
“I think
the water is now seeping through the crack and soaking your brain. Come, you
must get up.” She attempted to slide off, but he wouldn’t release her.
“Why?” he
asked with perfect sincerity. “I am already soaked. I’ve ruined my best
breeches. And I believe my horse has run off without me.” He crooked his neck
to look around her and verify the lane’s emptiness, then returned to
scrutinizing her breasts. “If I must live at the bottom of a barrel from
henceforth, the view from here is much better than any I’ve seen for a while.”
She had
so many plans she wanted to talk about, so many things she needed to
accomplish, so many hopes pinned to this impossible man—and his only interest
was in her bosom!
She
grabbed his long, aristocratic nose and twisted. “Let me go, oaf. I thank you
for breaking my fall, but I’m not a water nymph. I want dry clothes and a
roaring fire.”
He
removed her hand with ease and proceeded to nibble on her fingers. “Tart.
Excellent dirt. I don’t suppose you have a roaring fire nearby? Lady Leila
won’t exactly welcome me in this condition.”
Leila’s
eyes flared wide. The daft devil didn’t recognize her! He’d definitely
cracked his brainpan. Was this how he behaved with all women other than
herself?
But then,
most men behaved more honestly with women of the lower orders, and that is how
she must appear at the moment. He’d never seen her without powder or wearing
anything less than the finest silks. How interesting that dressing in old gowns
to play in the dirt liberated not only her but also the man in her
company.
Mischief
lurked within her, and she couldn’t resist testing the theory. “I know a place
where we can start a fire,” she said brightly, without the studied purr she
would have used in London. “It’s just around the bend.”
His
expression was skeptical. “You’re not saying that just so I’ll release you, are
you? I’m perfectly content to lie here until the moon comes out.”
“And be
run over by the next carriage? Up, my drowning sailor. I want a fire.” She
might be intrigued by the tantalizing effect of man and arousal and pure
healthy sex, but she’d never succumbed before and saw no reason to do so now.
Pleasure was short-lived, but her garden was for a lifetime.
She
tugged her hand away and swung her leg over his broad torso the way a man dismounts
a horse. She’d always wanted to ride astride, but this hadn’t been her idea of
a mount.
He
grimaced when he was hit by the full brunt of the rain without her warmth to
shield him. “I think I’ve broken every bone in my body. I don’t suppose you
would be inclined to help me up?”
She
propped her hands on her hips and glared down at him with suspicion. “I don’t
suppose I would. I’d end up rolling in the mud again, wouldn’t I?”
A smile
of sleepy satisfaction spread across his normally taciturn face. “You’re much
too clever for a girl. Even my brothers fall for that one.” With a grunt, he
rolled to one side and heaved himself to a sitting position. This time, his
gaze focused on her gardening shoes. “Dainty feet. Does the mud squish between
your toes?”
It did.
Her soles had separated from her flat kid boots, and the rain had soaked
through. She kicked his solid thigh to pry him up, but he’d already succeeded
in sending a thrill through her. Men didn’t admire her toes. Dunstan
Ives was too dangerous for her own good.
Dunstan
Ives thought she was a country wench, free for the asking.
“Up, or I
shall leave you here to wallow in the mud,” she declared.
He
staggered up, dripping mud and rivulets of water from hair and clothes as he
towered over her. Leila caught her breath at the immensity of the man blocking
her view of the landscape. A black ribbon dangled from the remains of a queue
at his nape. His sopping brown coat hugged wide shoulders and powerful arms. A
muddy, crumpled stock clung to dripping linen and a black vest that molded to
his deep chest and narrow waist. He looked perfectly comfortable in the mess,
and her heart did a jig. The gentlemen she knew would be bemoaning the
destruction of their pretty attire, not looking at her as if she were a piece
of tasty pie.
She wore
no powder or perfume, her hair hung in straggling black hanks down a muddied
woolen bodice, and she looked worse than she ever had in her entire life—so bad
he didn’t even recognize her. And still he stared at her with devouring hunger.
She
definitely liked this man.
With a
swing of her hips, she set off toward the cottage she’d had cleaned and
prepared for the estate agent she’d hired—the best agronomist in the kingdom.
Dunstan’s
addled brain seemed to tilt, then right itself once his feet found solid
ground.
Feeling
as if he truly must have cracked his brain-case, he trudged down the lane after
the woman in red. He’d flirted with the wench. Gad, he couldn’t remember
flirting since he’d sired his son on Bessie. He would have to further investigate
the effects of blows to the head. Could one pound sense out of heads?
Rubbing
his bruised skull and rounding the bend in the lane, he watched his playful
companion walk up to a neat latched gate in a privet hedge. Beyond the gate,
the steward’s two-story stone cottage, which he’d moved into earlier, rose
against a backdrop of larches and chestnut trees. How did the bedraggled female
know to return him here—unless she was a servant he hadn’t met?
Dunstan
didn’t waste much time studying people the way he studied crops and weather,
but he had an odd notion that the impertinent bit opening the gate didn’t have
an ounce of servitude in her.
A pity.
Given his clash with his last employer, he probably ought to take some lessons—
A sight
down the lane, past the gate, distracted Dunstan’s musing. Otto, his damnable
horse, stood calmly cropping the grassy verge ahead.
Forgetting
the woman waiting at the cottage gate, Dunstan strode past her to grab the
horse’s halter. Otto shook his shaggy head, splattering him with moisture.
Amazed that he’d noticed those few drops in the midst of a downpour, Dunstan
glanced up at the sky. The clouds had parted and a rainbow pierced the sky.
He
glanced back at the alluring figure tapping her foot, and something twitched
inside him. He knew temptation when he saw it, and knew he must resist it at
all costs.
Leading
his horse, he stopped in front of her. Now that he wasn’t blinded by rain, he
could see that she had midnight-blue eyes lit with starfire and lush lips that
didn’t need the artifices of paint. No more golden-haired, deceitful
aristocrats for him. A hearty country wench like this one was just the sort of
woman he might one day hope to have at his side, and in his bed.
To his
regret, that day wasn’t today. He couldn’t afford her or any other distraction
until he cleared his name in Celia’s death. It would be a long time after that
before he could afford a wife, even a country one.
“I would
offer you the warmth of a fire,” he said politely, “but I cannot risk angering
the lady of the manor by dallying where I shouldn’t. I’ll bid you good evening,
and hope we meet someday under more auspicious circumstances.”
Leading
his horse through the gate, Dunstan turned his back on her surprised expression
before she could destroy his illusion of loveliness by unleashing whatever
female temper she harbored.
He was
becoming very good at turning his back on temptation.
After carefully covering his turnip seeds with damp linen, Dunstan jotted
down a few notes in his scientific journal, then glanced out the cottage window
to the freshly plowed field caught in the fading rays of the sunset.
The first
pleasure and satisfaction he’d known in a long time rose in him at the sight. His
field, earned with the sweat of his own brow, planted with his newly developed
seeds—a root crop that with the proper care should grow thrice the size of all
others. He’d been here only a week, but the weight of the world was already
lifting off his back.
If all
went well, he would have a thick crop of feed vegetables to sell next winter,
the newly formed agricultural society would recognize his achievements, and
he’d have taken a step toward improving the lot of small farmers everywhere.
Had he
owned the land, his labors would be considered a gentlemanly endeavor to
improve it, and he would have aristocratic visitors from across England. As it
was, the snobs wouldn’t step past their gates for him, and he would be
fortunate to attract the interest of anyone except local tenants. So be it. He
didn’t crave recognition so much as a means of earning his living and a modicum
of respect.
Self-respect
would suffice, for now. It was hard enough to come by these days.
The
vision of the broken corpse that had once been the bright-eyed, laughing girl
he’d married still haunted him. He had a man’s blood on his hands because of
her. Guilt and shame and a gnawing horror at his own actions continually
tormented him.
He didn’t
know if he had the ability to rebuild a life for himself in the aftermath of
Celia’s death, but he had a son to support. The challenge of surviving each day
for Griffith’s sake kept him occupied. The search for the truth of Celia’s
death kept him from wallowing in self-pity. Now that he had an income again, he
had funds for the investigator with whom he would meet shortly.
He
glanced at the daily written summons from Lady Leila that his housekeeper had
left on his desk, which he continued to ignore. Allowing a seductive Malcolm to
bewitch him was a certain road to madness. Better to remember Celia and the tragic
results of passion.
He’d
hired gardeners and ordered the ground plowed. What more could the lady ask?
Visiting her would accomplish nothing.
A bright
swirl of red dancing between the dirt rows in the sun’s waning light distracted
Dunstan from his thoughts. He didn’t need some fool crushing the hills,
destroying his seed. Furling his fingers into fists, he pushed away from the
high desk, prepared to chase off the trespasser.
His eye
caught the dancing red again as it drew nearer—the woman from the lane
following a small black-and-white cat. She was like the moon, appearing at
day’s end to tempt a man to folly.
He wanted
her gone—from his thoughts as well as from his sight.
He
returned to leaning against the desk. With his reputation, an angry confrontation
with a woman would not be an intelligent move.
If he was
nothing else, he was an intelligent man—except when it came to women. Women
infected his brain like green worms infected rotted apples.
There was
something subtly erotic about the way she skipped among his carefully tended
furrows, ruby lips flashing a taunting smile, as if she knew he was watching.
Dunstan
turned away from the window.
He didn’t
need luscious lips tempting him to something he had no right to consider. Work
must come first these days.
Retreating
from his study to the front parlor, Dunstan grabbed his coat and hat. He strode
to the stable, saddled his gelding, mounted, and spurred it into a gallop,
leaving the figure in red behind him.
Fuming
over the ability of women to turn him into a churning cauldron of lust, Dunstan
rode to the pub where he’d agreed to meet the investigator Drogo had
recommended. He’d spent this last year praying that the authorities would
uncover Celia’s murderer, but they all seemed satisfied to assume he had killed
her.
He
clenched his jaw and prayed that he had not.
Only
idlers and travelers occupied the tables as he entered the inn. Dunstan
accepted a tankard, nodded at the local butcher, and took a bench near the fire
to wait.
“I say,
you look familiar.” A traveler in a silk coat pinned back at the tail for
riding, and fashionable new spatterdashes to cover his stockings, spoke up from
a booth in the corner. “Have we met?”
The
speaker was evidently a London macaroni, and Dunstan made it a habit to avoid
the city and its jaded residents. He sipped his ale before replying, “I doubt
it.”
“I’m
Handel.” The fop carried his tankard over to the settle. “I’d recognize an Ives
anywhere,” he said, taking a seat. “Those black looks and that long nose give
you away. Inventive, the lot of you, I understand.”
Dunstan
shrugged. If this was the man Drogo had recommended, then his brother had made
a rare mistake in judgment.
“I say,
you aren’t here to court the widow, are you? Not fair at all, I assure you.
Drogo’s claimed one fair Malcolm. There’s no need for Ives to take them all.”
“There
are dozens of them,” Dunstan informed him dryly. “The countryside is littered
with golden-haired witches. There’s scarcely enough of us to take them all.”
The fop
chortled. “It’s the fair-haired ones who are dangerous, so they say. Now, the
widow, she’s different. Her late husband used to say her only power is that of
seduction, and I’ve no objection to that.”
That
fairly well narrowed the topic of conversation, although Dunstan didn’t grasp the
difference between Lady Leila and the rest of her clan. They were all
golden-haired, dangerous seductresses, in some manner or other.
He could
still feel her fingers on his chest a week after the fact. He could easily see
how a Malcolm could sink her seductive talons into a man, and he’d never be
free again—although dying of pleasure might be its own reward. It just wasn’t
for him. He had other responsibilities.
“Her late
husband’s nephew is offering a bounty to the first man who catches her,” Handel
continued affably, apparently unconcerned that he was holding a conversation
with himself.
The news
about Lady Leila’s nephew surprised Dunstan. He hadn’t thought a young lad
would be so astute as to offer cash to take the widow off his hands. “Why would
he do that?” he asked, cursing himself for asking.
The
macaroni shrugged his padded shoulders. “He keeps bad company? Perhaps he wants
his estate back. The lady possesses only a life interest in it, and she
surrenders that should she marry.”
Dunstan
struggled to hide his shock. All his hard work, the field he’d just
meticulously planted according to the latest scientific recommendations—left to
the whims of a woman who might marry and lose it all? Was ever a man so great a
fool as he?
“For a
man with no wish to immerse himself in the country, her lack of land would be
no matter,” the man continued, unaware he’d just dealt a blow to his listener.
“She has wealth and position enough without it.”
His seeds
were planted, damn it. He couldn’t leave now.
Raking
his hands through his hair, Dunstan tried not to panic. How long would it be
before she married and he was thrown out again by the heir? He’d only met the
new Viscount Staines once and knew little of him, other than that he was an
obnoxious adolescent just down from school, ripe for all the trouble London
could provide.
“And your
interest is?” Dunstan demanded, choosing belligerence over panic. The lady had
hired him. He owed her the loyalty of protecting her from idle gossip, if
naught else.
The fop
grinned. “Just testing to see if you’re interested in a wealthier wife this
time around. Full appellation is Arthur Garfield, Viscount Handel. I believe
you expressed an interest in hiring me.”
An
aristocrat! At the
moment, Dunstan would prefer to plant his fist in the fop’s breadbasket for his
mischief-making, but that wouldn’t convince the investigator that he wasn’t the
type of man to go about strangling wives. Why the devil would Drogo recommend
he hire a viscount? Better yet, why would a viscount be available for hire?
“If you
must test me before I hire you, I’m not interested in your services,” Dunstan
said, then drank deeply of his tankard and tried to disregard the shame and
anger of having to prove himself to a coxcomb.
The
viscount arranged himself elegantly on the seat across from him. “Of course you
are interested in my services. You have the social grace of an ox. Your only
hope of discovering the truth is to shake it out of someone.”
Dunstan
grimaced at these truths. “I can’t afford a bloody viscount. Why the hell would
you be interested?”
Handel
fluttered his long fingers. “Naught better to do with my time. I only accept
payment if I solve the mystery. It gives me a good excuse to poke my nose where
it doesn’t belong.”
“Such as
in Lady Leila’s business?” Dunstan growled, still peeved at the macaroni for
knowing more than he had about the lady’s estate.
“Oh,
Staines is informing all London of that. You really ought to visit the city
more often. It’s a hotbed of entertaining news. I can probably tell you far more
about your wife and her lovers than you can tell me.”
He was no
doubt right about that. Grumpily, Dunstan sipped his ale and scowled. There
were times when he wasn’t at all certain that Celia deserved to have her killer
brought to justice. And then he would remember the lovely child she’d been and
know he was as guilty as she was. She’d thought he offered her a dream.
Instead, he’d offered his surly self. More the fool, he. “I’d rather not hear
the details,” he said. “I simply want to know what happened that night.”
“To know
if you’re capable of murder?” the viscount asked.
The
possibility haunted him. If he had killed Celia—the thought curdled Dunstan’s
blood—then he was a danger to every woman he came across, particularly widows
who annoyed him and barefoot country wenches who lured him astray.
Shoving
his ale aside, Dunstan nodded curtly. “You’d best take payment in advance if
you’re inclined to accept potential murderers as clients.”
Handel
puckered his mouth in a frown of dismissal. “I’ll rely on your brother to take
it out of your estate. A handshake will do.”
His
estate—should he hang.
He would
never have a life, much less an estate, if he had to live under a cloud of
suspicion. A London macaroni would be far more adept than he at prying
information out of the fast company Celia had kept.
Gritting
his teeth, Dunstan held out his callused palm to the viscount’s soft white one
and sealed the deal.
He’d been
ignoring the flower gardens in favor of the income-producing fields—not a
politically expedient choice, Dunstan could see now as he rode away from the
tavern. He preferred logic to politics, but if Lady Leila was his employer, it
might behoove him to ingratiate himself with her so she might give him a
recommendation, should the time come when she married and her nephew took over
the estate.
Disgruntled
at the idea of groveling, Dunstan rode back under the light of the moon with an
eye to looking over the land the lady wished cleared for her gardens. Contrary
to what he’d led her to believe, he’d worked with his mother’s rosebushes in
his youth. He preferred a good solid feed crop any day. Turnips replenished the
soil and fed livestock, and the strain he’d developed would help struggling
farmers.
Flowers?
Frivolous folderol that benefited no one.
He reined
in his horse on the side of the lane, tied it to a tree limb, and climbed the
stile to inspect the soil. Roses didn’t like this rocky dirt, but he supposed
the lady wouldn’t be aware of how to measure soil quality. He would have the
devil of a time developing a fallow field like this one.
He could
bring in the horse manure pile from behind the stable, he thought as he
followed a sheep path around the side of the hill. He halted abruptly at the
sight that greeted him.
The woman
in red knelt so still in the moonlight, she didn’t appear to be breathing.
Raven curls tumbled down her back and spilled over her slender shoulders,
lifting occasionally in a light breeze as she gazed at something on the ground
in front of her.
This
woman never behaved in the manner of ordinary women—flying from stiles in
thunderstorms, dancing in turnip fields at sunset. What the devil was she doing
now? Worshiping the moon?
Common
sense told him to turn around and come back tomorrow. Logic said she had no
business being in the lady’s field at night. Instinct warned of the dangers to
an unprotected female from thieves and rogues wandering the roads. Torn,
Dunstan hesitated a moment too long.
She
turned. Moonlight flashed in her eyes, and enchantment moistened her ruby lips.
Holding a finger to those lips, she gestured for him to approach.
Curiosity
won over good sense. Striding as silently as he could across the rocky field,
much too aware of his bulk and her slenderness as he approached, he crouched
beside her. “Are you insane, woman?” he whispered, not knowing why he
whispered.
“Shhh.
Look there.” She pointed to a clump of wild rose brambles sprawling across one
of the many rocks scattered over the field. The branches bore the first green
sprigs of spring.
Dunstan
squinted through the moonlit darkness, feeling a fool. “I don’t see anything.”
“Brand-new
baby rabbits,” she whispered. “Look, they’re no bigger than mice, and nearly as
furless.”
“You’d
better keep your cat away from them, then.” Rabbits! The woman had cotton for
brains. He started to stand, but the mother rabbit twitched her nose and perked
her ears, and he hesitated, drawn against his will. The newborns wriggled and
squirmed, searching for warmth and food, helpless and unprotected against the
dangers of the night. His fingers itched to touch them.
“Why did
she make her nest here instead of in a rabbit hole?” she asked. “It’s not safe.
Do you think we could move them?”
“They’re rabbits.
They eat crops. And you want to save them?” Clinging to practicality,
Dunstan regarded the fool woman with disbelief.
Hope
welled in her eyes. “Could you, please?”
Her plea
devastated his normal thought processes, and he struggled to find the logic
behind her request. “You hate Lady Leila that much?”
She
blinked in consternation and shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Those
baby rabbits will munch her seedlings to the ground and grow into great big
rabbits that will mow down her entire garden,” he pointed out.
“But
they’re babies!” she protested illogically. “It’s not fair to hurt the helpless.”
Bound by
her lack of reason—or her tempting curves—Dunstan surrendered. He tugged at his
sleeve to release his arm from his coat. “You want to raise bait for Lord
Staines’s hounds?” he suggested.
She shook
her head and watched him with wide eyes that made him feel vastly interesting
as he peeled off his coat.
“You have
a fox at home that prefers rabbit stew?”
She
chuckled as she caught on to his warped humor. Shaking her head, she checked
the rabbits again, then watched with even greater admiration as Dunstan removed
his vest.
“We could
put them in a pen and fatten them for dinner,” he offered, hoping to lessen the
impact of her eyes and the spring night and the sweet scent of a woman’s
perfume. His gaze fell to her bee-stung lips, and he swallowed, hard.
“They’re babies,”
she insisted.
His brain
gave up on logic and focused on frailty and females and the desire to do
whatever made her happy. Even in this poor light, he could tell her simple gown
covered ample curves unhampered by a corset. He could reach out and touch her
breasts with just . . .
He took a
deep breath. “You have some suggestion as to where to move them?”
Leila
beamed. She’d known she could trust Dunstan Ives, even if he was the most
obstinate, irritating male alive. “Do you think you can? Mama Rabbit won’t like
it.”
Dunstan
touched his finger to his lips to silence her, then with surprising stealth for
so large a man, he flung his coat over the mother rabbit and trapped her in its
folds.
“Use my
vest to carry the little ones.” He clung to the struggling rabbit while Leila
delicately lifted the mewling creatures into the silk of Dunstan’s vest.
“Where
to?” he demanded.
Rather
than explain, Leila headed off across the field in the direction of the rocky
hill ahead. Feeling freer than she had in ages, laughing eagerly at this chance
to slip her bonds, she led the Ives a merry chase. She could smell his lust and
disbelief and laughter, felt the astonishing rise of ardor within herself, and
exulted in the newness.
“Here.
There’s a crevice here.” She crouched down to show him the opening into the
hill. “May I use your vest to soften the nest?”
“By all
means,” he answered with a dryness that would have done a desert proud.
She
smiled at the return of his usual dour nature. Swiftly and methodically, she
slipped the vest with its precious contents into the protected shelter behind a
boulder. When she was done, she sat back to let Dunstan release the mother
rabbit. She held her breath until mama sniffed and twitched her nose and
located her babies, then hopped into the hill and out of sight.
The
laughter of relief and joy spilled from her lips, and daringly, she leaned over
to hug Dunstan’s brawny neck. “Such a lovely man! Thank you, sir. Few others
would be so kind.”
Ah, the
scent of him! He filled her lungs with the precious aromas of adolescent nights
and stolen kisses, of a time when all things had seemed possible and desire was
new. Her breasts tingled and swelled at just the brush of his shirt. His lust
and the scent of a spring night aroused all her senses.
He
stiffened and stood up quickly, breaking her impetuous hug. “Few others would
be so stupid,” he said gruffly. “The creatures will nibble Lady Leila’s flowers
as fast as they grow.”
Stubborn
man! Her flat boots brought her eyes to a level with his neckcloth when she
rose to stand toe to toe with him. Leila contemplated strangling him with his
cravat, but whimsy won out. She tilted her head and studied his locked jaw.
“Then the lady will build a fence around the flowers. That’s your responsibility,
isn’t it?”
Before
Dunstan could react in his usual surly manner, Leila wrapped her fingers in his
linen, stood on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his bristly cheek. “You’re not
nearly as wicked as you pretend, sir.”
With a
swiftness that caught her by surprise, he wrapped his big hands around her
waist, lifted her from the ground, and captured her mouth. His kiss stole her
breath, tingled her toes, and annihilated all ability to think. Parting her
lips to his probing tongue, she clung to his shoulders for support as he
accepted her offer.
Before
she recovered her spinning senses, he abruptly set her back on her feet,
grabbed his coat, and strode away.
Oh, my!
Leila touched her fingers to her aching lips and let hunger flow to parts of
her body long denied as she watched him walk away. He seemed to have no idea
that he’d just awakened desires she’d never dreamed of.
Somewhere
beneath the cold, controlled exterior of Dunstan Ives lay a wild stallion
chomping at the bit.
It really
wasn’t healthy to keep all that passion reined in. What would happen should she
unleash it?
Intrigued,
she rubbed her fingers over the lingering man smell of him on her cheek, and
deliberated.
In the rosy light of early morning, Leila happily studied the workshop
she’d created in her late husband’s dairy. Her mother had sent equipment and
vials of perfume bases from her own stores. Leila had ordered workbenches and
shelves built to her specifications. She’d also purchased expensive scents from
other gardeners so she could begin experimenting before her own fields grew.
Finally, after years of Teddy’s disapproval, she had everything she needed to
begin her lifelong dream.
Teddy
must be rolling in his grave.
Crossing
to the window overlooking the gardens that would flourish with flowers once
Dunstan applied his formidable knowledge to them, she breathed in a sense of
accomplishment.
She’d
conquered society for her husband’s sake. Now she was creating beauty for her
own. And if all went well, she hoped to achieve far more than beauty.
Of
course, all she’d accomplished so far was to plant a few struggling roses and
make some scented soap. With a sigh, she returned to the vat of tallow and fat
cooking on the stove. She’d adapted the family recipe to suit her delicate
fragrances, but she thought a dash more lye would better befit a man like
Dunstan Ives.
Remembering
the manly chest beneath his worn linen, she smiled wickedly. She might not
possess any Malcolm gifts, but she could recognize lust when she smelled it—the
earthy Dunstan Ives craved the equally earthy woman in red. His scent evoked
memories of long ago days when she’d thought marriage would be filled with
passion and excitement.
She
hadn’t thought to find passion in widowhood. She reached for the oil of
patchouli. She was thinking forbidden thoughts, but she couldn’t help comparing
the Dunstan who rescued baby rabbits with the arrogant gentleman who sulked in
ballrooms and ignored a lady’s requests. She’d deliberately worn a mask of
happiness and sensuality all these years to hide her unhappiness and lack of
passion. Could Dunstan be hiding in the same way? Was he even aware of it?
She
touched her nose and gazed over her choice of scents, then seized the container
of dried honeysuckle.
She had
stirred the liquid soap to perfect consistency and was in the process of
pouring the batch into molds when a clatter of light feet and a spate of
feminine giggles in the stone corridor warned that some portion of her family
had arrived.
She
almost felt irritation at being thus disturbed. She loved her family and she
loved company, but right now—
“Leila,
we’ve brought presents!” a sweet voice called—her younger sister, Felicity.
“Leila,
was that an Ives we saw on the road?” Willowy and fair, Christina danced into
the room. “No one has an aura like an Ives. I swear, the man exuded male—”
“Christina!”
Leila reprimanded. “Felicity is too young to hear that.”
“Felicity
is a dull bookworm who may not wish to hear, but she’s certainly old
enough.”
Ignoring
the petty squabbling of her sisters, Felicity wandered along Leila’s workbench,
pushing her spectacles up her nose to inspect labels, refraining from touching
anything with her gloved hands. “This is so much nicer than Mama’s workshop.
Could you make a scent for me?”
“It can
only be a common scent,” Leila warned. “I don’t have my own distillations yet.”
Felicity
poked at the soap molds and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I trust we will not
bathe with these. They are very strong, and not very pretty.”
More
experienced in scents, Christina bent to smell, too. She threw Leila a roguish
look as she straightened again. “Musk. These are for a man. Not the Ives,
surely?”
Impatiently,
Leila discarded her apron and strode toward the door. “I assume Ives men must
bathe as others do. Come, let’s have some tea, and you can tell me of your
journey. Will you stay long?”
“Mama
wants me to debut this year,” Felicity called, clattering ahead of them,
stopping occasionally to inspect decorations in the dairy’s tiled walls. “But I
don’t think I shall marry. Surely we have wealth enough by now. The family
coffers do not need my contribution.”
Leila
laughed at the old complaint. “You have not yet been kissed, have you? You’ll
change your mind.”
Felicity
favored her with a disgruntled look and raced ahead. Leila’s nose twitched at
the scent of anxiety Felicity left behind, reminding her of her own first
come-out. The scent summoned vivid memories of moonlit nights and overeager
suitors. She’d been brash enough to try their kisses. Felicity wasn’t.
She
missed her sisters and the hurly-burly of society. She ought to be with her
family for their debuts and triumphs, not plodding through muddy fields. But
muddy fields might produce the means of truly becoming part of her family. She
had to try.
She
refrained from rubbing her nose and let memories of past glories fade.
Candlelit balls and glittering jewels didn’t equate with happiness.
Christina
dallied behind, swinging her beaded reticule. “Lord Harry Hollingswell has
asked Father for my hand,” she said casually. “I’ve known him all my life, and
even if he is only the duke’s younger son, Aunt Stella says we will suit.”
“You know
better than any of us if he’s a good man,” Leila replied cautiously. Love had
little to do with Malcolm marriages. They all knew that. Men seldom understood
the Malcolm gifts, and where there wasn’t understanding, there couldn’t be
love. Still, the deeper knowledge of character provided by their gifts allowed
them to arrange solid marriages that provided wealth, more Malcolms, and a
higher level of satisfaction than most.
Ninian
had unexpectedly thrown over all expectations a few years ago by marrying for
love, and minor rebellion had occasionally rippled through the younger set ever
since. If Leila could save her sisters from the boredom and resentment she’d suffered
in her marriage, she would, but without the gifts the rest of her family
possessed, she did not feel wise enough to make that judgment on her own.
Christina
shrugged. “Harry is good, but dull. He is only a few years my elder. We may be
married a long time.”
Leila
nodded sympathetically. “Then he had best be a man who allows you to go on as
you wish. Tell Maman that. She will understand.”
“I can’t
read that much into his aura.”
“Does
Harry know you read auras?” Leila asked, knowing how difficult it had been for
the logical Drogo to accept Ninian’s empathic gifts.
Christina
glanced away. “He laughs and calls me his imaginative little creature.”
Indignation tinged her voice. “Men are always pleasant and accommodating when
they want something. Once they have their way, they’re impossible.”
Leila
chuckled. “A duke’s younger son has no need to provide an heir, and Harry
already knows to expect only girls from Malcolm women, so he must be marrying
you for more than your looks. He will be fascinated for many years if you play
your cards well.”
“I’d
rather play my cards with someone exciting, like an Ives,” Christina grumbled.
“As a
rule, men like that make very bad husbands. Drogo excluded, of course,” Leila
warned with amusement. “Drogo has the title and wealth. The other Ives are all
poor and dangerous.”
Felicity
burst back upon them before Christina could reply. “There’s a grand carriage
coming up the drive. Are you expecting visitors?”
Leila
groaned. More of the eager suitors her nephew encouraged, she supposed. Drat
the brat, she had wanted to plant her new roses today, not entertain unwanted
suitors.
And she
wanted to see Dunstan in his shirtsleeves again. The man’s immense knowledge
captured her imagination, but there was something about a man in dishabille. . . .
Foolish
thought. She’d best concentrate on her guests. For the sake of her sisters and
their introduction to society, she must don her smiling mask and welcome her
nephew’s guests.
The lady
had demanded his presence—again.
Dunstan
tugged down his overly tight vest—his good one now lined a rabbit hole, thanks
to a foolish woman, or his foolish lust—and prodded his gelding toward the rose
garden rising out of a rock field.
He
couldn’t believe he’d rescued a damned rabbit because of a woman, but it certainly
served as a reminder of her different manner of thinking—and of his inability
to resist her wiles.
Tying his
horse to a branch, he cut across the lawn to the field where he’d found the
girl in red last night. He stopped short at the sight he encountered past the
hill.
Lady
Leila, wearing a black gown accented with a lacy white neckerchief and a
swooping black hat that concealed her face from the sun, stood watching over
gardeners digging at the skeletal remains of her blighted roses.
The
laborers Dunstan had ordered to clear the field worked around her, carrying
rocks to a wall meant to prevent the flock of gamboling ewes and lambs from
grazing the flower beds.
Dunstan
glared in annoyance at the stack of brown rose canes piling up beside the
workmen. He hadn’t ordered anyone to touch the roses. He’d been waiting to see
if any of them were still alive. Lady Leila was a damned incompetent gardener,
but a determined one. Even as he watched, she shooed away a curious lamb while
pointing out another blackened bush to her crew.
Fool
woman was bent on building this garden, with or without him. He’d best teach
her how to do it properly. Stripping off his coat and flinging it over the
wall, he lifted the lamb out of the rows, gently carried it to the other side
of the wall, then stalked across the remains of the rose garden.
Aware of
her stare, Dunstan recognized the impropriety of appearing before a lady in his
loose shirt. She’d have to get used to it if she insisted on visiting the
fields. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he
approached.
“What do
you care?” she replied, scrubbing at her cheek with the back of her gloved
hand. “You have not bothered to tend them.”
“I’ve had
men out here every day—” Coming close enough to see the tear tracks staining
her fair skin, he stumbled over his tongue. “What the devil are you crying
over?” he inquired, realizing even as he said it that he only made matters
worse.
The lady
jerked down her veil to hide her wet cheeks. “They’re dead! All those magnificent
flowers and magical scents—lost. Don’t you feel anything?”
“They’re
certainly dead once you rip them out of the ground.” Not wanting to care about
damned useless roses, Dunstan glared at the workmen, who were watching him
warily. “Leave the bushes alone,” he snapped. “Harness the oxen to the plow.
Once this field is turned, use the wagon to carry the stones over to the
boundary wall.”
He didn’t
bother checking to see if they obeyed. From an early age, he had taken it for
granted that men would follow his orders. Men followed orders. Women, on the
other hand . . .
Dunstan
wrapped his fingers around the lady’s elbow, steering her away from the stack
of uprooted bushes. “I’ll dig out the dead ones. They were planted too early
and the change in weather damaged them. Some might still live if they’re
treated properly.”
“Really?
You can save them?”
Her sob
of relief pierced an unguarded chink in his armor.
Dunstan
didn’t have the words or the time or the patience to talk to elegant
ladies, particularly ones smelling of roses and jasmine. “Maybe. If you’ll stay
out of my way.”
“You’re a
big fraud, you know.” Not moving away, she tilted her head so he could see the
smile forming on her lips.
Startled
at being told something similar for the second time in twenty-four hours,
Dunstan dropped her elbow and glared at her. She was but a shallow flirt, and
he should take no notice of her foolishness. But a small voice in the back of
his head warned that she was also a Malcolm. What was she trying to tell him?
At his thunderous
silence, her smile widened. “Beneath that prickly exterior of yours is a man
who cares.”
Fool
woman! Having expected something much more momentous, Dunstan growled, “Not
about roses,” and stomped away, trying hard not to hear her laughter.
Locating
the first heavy stone available, he hefted it to his shoulder and heaved it in
the direction of the wall. Hard physical labor had helped ease his sexual
frustration these past years. He would probably kill himself if the damned
Malcolm insisted on polishing her temptress talents on him.
In the
shade of evening, after donning her old gardening gown and slipping away from
her guests, Leila examined the results of Dunstan’s efforts. The wall was
almost high enough to keep out the sheep, and the roses had been pruned back to
tiny shoots of green. Her heart leapt wild and free with excitement.
Letting
her cat scamper after a field mouse, she stooped to test the quality of the
soil as she’d seen Dunstan do, and didn’t realize she had company until a
lengthy shadow fell across the furrow.
The scent
of smoke and cards and an underlying tension told her who it was before she
glanced up. Henry Wickham. He’d appeared with the other guests earlier,
apparently apprised by her nephew that her sisters were on their way. She
didn’t remember him as being so nervous when he’d courted her in London, but he
wasn’t much older than herself and probably new to the activity. Annoyed that
he’d caught her with her guard down, she remained kneeling.
“You have
some interest in fields?” she inquired dryly, knowing he seldom left the city.
Wickham wasn’t a large man, but the kind of languid, lace-and-beribboned
gentleman who spent far too much time at card tables and too little outdoors.
“Only in
what grows in them, if you are any example,” he replied suggestively.
Leila
narrowed her eyes. In the fading daylight, he stood over her, swaying slightly.
She wouldn’t call his words the polite flattery he usually bestowed on her.
He’d no doubt spent too much time imbibing liquid courage after dinner.
She bit
back the insult that leapt to her tongue and started to rise.
Wickham
caught her elbow and dragged her upward. “Come here, and let me have a better
look. I have a shiny coin for you, if you suit.”
Leila
gaped at the insult. The light must be poor, or he was too besotted to
recognize her voice or see anything but her unbound, unpowdered hair and rough
clothes. She had dressed casually in hopes of catching Dunstan here, not some
drunken rake.
She ought
to be afraid, but mischief won out. “And I have a shiny knife for you, if you
don’t let go,” she warned in her best tavern wench manner.
“Now
that’s no way to speak to a gentleman. I know the lady of the manor. I could
have you turned off this land, if I so desired.” He tugged with more force than
such a slender man should possess, hurting her arm and upsetting her balance.
“It’s much more pleasant to accept my coins.”
Despite
their similar heights, he was stronger, and Leila staggered, catching herself
by slamming her free hand against the lace of his cravat. Even though she
lacked her usual high heels and powdered curls, he surely ought to recognize
her at this close range. He stank of ale and polluted lust, and she had to
fight not to rub her twitching nose. Anger rising, she jerked her imprisoned
arm. “Let me go, fool, or I’ll have the magistrate after you.”
“He’s not
here, is he, then? Damn, but you’re a bawdy wench.” Obviously still blind to
anything but her gender and her clothes, Henry twisted his fingers in her
unruly hair and pulled her toward him.
She’d
been gently raised in the household of a marquess. No one had ever
treated her in such a manner. Revulsion raised bile in her throat, but fury won
out.
“Let me
go, you jackanapes!” she cried loudly, stomping his foot as hard as she could.
But he wore boots and didn’t notice. She kicked his shin, and he wrenched her
hair harder. Leila screamed in stunned outrage, too furious to feel fear.
“Vermin
generally wait until full dark,” a deep voice intruded. “It’s much too easy to
put musket balls through tiny heads in daylight.”
Dunstan. Leila scarcely had time to
register his scent before Wickham released her. She stumbled backward, tripped
in the soft soil, and fell on her rear, knocking the breath from her lungs. The
tumble didn’t disturb her enough to tear her gaze from the man who was
strolling across the rough furrows, following her cat, Jehoshaphat.
Dunstan
sauntered as lazily as the animal, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
The tension in the powerful muscles of his shoulders gave the lie to his
insouciance.
He didn’t
carry a weapon. Leila rather wished he did. Wickham’s usually affable
expression had turned ugly. Apparently he was better at recognizing men than
women—but then, Dunstan’s size and unfashionable black queue were unmistakable.
“Ives!”
Wickham all but hissed in fury as the large man reached them. “They ought to
have hanged you by now.”
Dunstan
rolled his big hands into fists that Leila admired longingly. If only she had
fists like that . . .
“I have
rich relatives to protect me. Who do you have?” he asked in mockery.
Recovering
from the ignominy of her position, Leila brushed the dirt off her palms and
remained seated. “No one,” she replied for Wickham. “He is a leech who gambles
his allowance and runs up debts in anticipation of his uncle’s early demise.”
Wickham
gaped at her in disbelief. “Who do you think you are, a witch like yonder bitch
on the hill?” He returned to Dunstan. “She is naught but a sharp-tongued vixen.
It’s none of your affair, unless you have taken to wallowing with pigs.”
Leila
removed her pruning knife from its sheath and contemplated how much of his boot
she could carve before he noticed.
“Put the
knife away.” Dunstan’s voice was cool and distant. “Wickham comes from a family
of vultures and wouldn’t recognize the superiority of pigs if it was explained
to him.”
She
almost smiled at that. Resheathing her knife, she stayed sprawled where she
was, admiring the silhouette of Dunstan’s broad shoulders encased in white
linen against the fading light of day. She remembered the rumors now—Dunstan
was said to have killed Wickham’s older brother in a duel over the feckless
Celia. She ought to be afraid, but she was too interested in how Dunstan would
handle the situation. She sensed it had become more his battle than hers.
She was
beginning to understand why Dunstan hid behind a mask of brooding indifference.
The likes of Wickham would crush a man who cared.
“You’ll
hang for what you did to George,” Wickham snarled. “And then they’ll boil you
in oil for murdering your tramp of a wife.”
“Run,
fetch the magistrate and the rope,” Dunstan offered, planting his fists on his
hips and thrusting his square chin forward. “Or would you like to call me out?
I prefer fisticuffs, but I can wield a sword if I must.”
“I won’t
lower myself to dueling with peasants,” Wickham sneered, retrieving his gloves
from his coat pocket and pulling them on. “You will pay for my brother’s death.
I will see to it.”
“Well, be
about it, then, and leave the woman alone. It may come as a surprise to you,
but sometimes when a woman says no, she means it.”
Wickham
laughed. “You believe that, do you? They all spread their—”
Dunstan’s
fist shot out so fast that he caught Wickham’s tongue between his teeth. Leila
winced as blood spurted and her would-be suitor staggered beneath the blow.
Before she could scramble to her feet, Dunstan had casually lifted Wickham by
the back of his coat and breeches and heaved him in the general direction of
the house.
“I
suggest you go back to your mother and tell her the nature of women,” Dunstan
called while his opponent scrambled up and rubbed his bleeding mouth with the
back of his hand.
Rising,
Leila stepped between them, shielding Dunstan with her back before the
situation could deteriorate further. “Better yet, tell it to Lady Leila,” she
called gaily, enjoying her charade more than she’d enjoyed any London
masquerade. “She has a whole family who might enjoy teaching you differently.”
Dunstan’s
arm circled her waist, pulling her back against his solid chest to halt her taunts.
Despite the violence of the encounter, he scarcely breathed hard. Rather than
protest his audacity in pulling her close, Leila snuggled her posterior into
his crotch and enjoyed the quickening of his breath and a more substantial part
of his anatomy.
Cursing,
Wickham disappeared into the darkness, but Dunstan didn’t offer to release her.
“You have
a wicked tongue,” he murmured, his low voice in her ear shooting shivers down
her spine.
His bold
touch encouraged her more dangerous desires. Leaning into him, Leila scraped
her fingernails lightly along the strong male hands clasping her waist. “Want
to taste it?” she taunted.
His sharp
intake of breath confirmed that he felt the same excitement she did. Her
husband had never incited her to such a level of arousal, certainly never with
all his clothes on and no other stimulation but an embrace. Inexperienced at
wanting a man, she was half afraid of what would happen next, yet she trusted
this Ives on a level beyond logic.
“You
shouldn’t be out here at this hour,” he said. “Am I to expect trouble every
time we cross paths?”
He didn’t
sound angry. His hand stroking her waist didn’t feel angry. “Are we to
cross paths often?” She dearly hoped so, if he would keep touching her like
this. Why had Maman never told her a man’s hand could feel so magical?
“Not if I
can avoid it,” he said dryly, stepping away. “Just so I might know who to
avoid, do you have a name?”
The
sudden coldness of his departure caused a rush of disappointment. She crossed
her arms over her breasts and glared at the moonlit hill rather than look at
him. He still didn’t recognize her. Were all men blind?
A complex
man was Dunstan Ives. In the interest of testing her theory that he was a
different man outside of the society to which he belonged, she answered, “Lily.
And yours?”
“Is of no
moment. Stay away from Wickham and his kind, Lily. They are not for the likes
of us.”
She heard
him moving away, and she whirled around. “What kind is he, sir? The offspring
of a younger son? A person of charm? And just what exactly are we? The
morally upright of the world?”
He halted
and turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Stay away from those who think
they can take what they want. The likes of us cannot afford to lose what little
we possess.”
Could
Wickham take her garden away? Could he take from her the best agronomist in the
kingdom? Surely not. Nor could he rob Dunstan of his knowledge. With renewed
confidence, she taunted, “I think we possess far more than you realize, and
what we possess is far too difficult for worms like Wickham to take.”
She
couldn’t read his expression in the dying light, but when he made no reply, she
hastened to add what she had not said earlier. “I thank you for coming to my
rescue.”
“I did
nothing but save the man a nasty knife wound. Be more careful in the future.”
He spun on his heel and strode across the newly plowed furrows.
“Wait a
minute!” she cried.
He halted
but didn’t turn to face her.
“Why did
you come here at this hour?”
This time
he tilted his head and nodded at Jehoshaphat playing among the bushes. “I
followed the cat.”
He walked
off, leaving Leila to stare after him. He followed her cat? Why? To see if it
chased her rabbits? Because his was a protective nature that he concealed
behind rudeness?
Twirling
a curl thoughtfully, she wondered how long it would take to twist his head
around and make him recognize Lily in Lady Leila. Would she have to strip off
his surly mask before he could see behind hers? How best could she go about it?
And how
furious would he be when he learned how she’d tricked him?
Saddling his horse, Dunstan plotted the route he would take that morning.
He wanted to meet with one of the local farmers who had bought a new breed of
sheep with wool much finer than that of the old-fashioned herd the estate kept.
He and Drogo had had some success with sheep breeding at Ives.
Having no
society but his own, he missed not having his brothers to consult. He told
himself he would learn to live with it.
But no
matter how he tried, he couldn’t drive Lily’s taunting words out of his mind.
His whole body ached from last night’s encounter. First Lady Leila, then her
diametric opposite. He needed a woman. Soon.
Logic
prevailed. He couldn’t afford to support any progeny that might result from
mindless rutting. He’d learned that lesson early in life. The parlor maid had
seduced him the year that Drogo had inherited Ives. Bessie had been heavy with
his child before he’d returned to school that year, and he and Drogo had been
supporting her and his son ever since. Abstinence hadn’t suited him, so he’d
taken Drogo’s advice and married soon after finishing school, but that hadn’t
worked any better. At least Bessie had enjoyed bed play. Celia had cost him far
more and satisfied him far less.
Riding
out of the stable, he reined in the old gelding to open the gate, then halted
his mount at the sight of a shiny new carriage swaying down the lane. The roads
here were too rough for city carriages. Leaning against his horse’s neck, he
amused himself watching the carriage wheels rub against brambles and lurch into
ditches. A good highwayman ought to steal those pretty bays and make better use
of them.
He raised
his eyebrows as the contraption rolled to a halt in front of his gate.
A slight
gentleman in a tricorne hat and silk frock coat stepped down. Even in London,
his beribboned bagwig would look ridiculous on so small a man. In the country
it was ludicrous. Dunstan bit back the urge to grin as high red heels stumbled
in a rut, and the mud of the road splattered white stockings.
Dunstan’s
gelding nickered, and the fancy gentleman finally looked up—Leila’s nephew,
Viscount Staines.
With a
sigh of aggravation, Dunstan swung down from the saddle. “May I help you?” He
couldn’t bring himself to say “my lord” or even “sir” to this fresh-faced boy.
“Ives,”
the young viscount said in what sounded like relief. “I must speak with you.”
Well, he
hadn’t figured the boy meant to do anything else. Steeling himself against bad
news, Dunstan tied his horse to the fence and led the viscount into the cottage.
“You could have posted a letter.”
“I hate
writing.” He sounded like a spoiled schoolboy refusing to do his lessons. “And
my grandfather insisted I keep an eye on Leila. He doesn’t trust her.”
Probably
with good reason, Dunstan thought, but held his tongue. Lady Leila was paying
his salary. He owed her his loyalty, much as it irritated him to admit it. “The
lady accepts my recommendations,” he answered mildly, showing his guest into
his chilly parlor. “Martha isn’t here yet, so I can’t offer you coffee.”
The boy
grimaced. “I hate coffee. Don’t know how anyone drinks it. I don’t suppose you
can make hot chocolate?”
“I don’t
suppose I can.” Impatiently, Dunstan gestured toward an ancient leather chair.
“What can I do for you?”
Leila’s
nephew paced instead of sitting. “You’ve let my aunt start building her
gardens.” He pulled two cigars out of his pocket and offered them both to
Dunstan.
Dunstan
accepted the gift. “She is my employer.” Not commenting on the oddity of a boy
handing him a cigar, he sniffed one.
Watching
him from the corner of his eye, Staines waved fretfully. “My uncle wouldn’t let
her build gardens for good reason. This is prime hunting country, and my
grandfather loves to hunt.”
“Then
your uncle shouldn’t have settled the estate on her.” Dunstan strolled to the
window, idly poking the cigar with a lighting straw. When the straw encountered
an obstacle, he turned his back on his guest, removed the childish device from
the cigar, tossed it out the window, then lit the tobacco and drew deeply.
“My uncle
was a besotted idiot, and Leila’s father is a marquess with the greed of a loan
shark. She was supposed to build a dower house on the hill and leave the fields
open for a park.” Outrage tinged the young viscount’s voice. “If Uncle Theodore
hadn’t stuck his spoon in the wall before Grandfather, it would have been no
problem, but now he’s left me to deal with his wretched widow.”
Dunstan
stifled a snort of contempt at the whining boy. He had younger brothers who
were more sensible than Staines. He took a long puff on the cigar until it
smoked properly. Behind him, the viscount watched with barely concealed
interest.
“If your
father hadn’t fallen from a parapet and got himself killed before your uncle
died,” Dunstan said carelessly, “the problem of Lady Leila would have been his
instead of yours. I don’t see that your grandfather can expect you to deal with
a situation you inherited and over which you have no control. The estate is
hers for as long as she remains unmarried. I should think you’d both best walk
softly around her.”
“My
grandfather won’t,” the boy answered glumly. “He’s old and set in his ways and
expects everyone to jump when he bellows. He’ll cut me out of his will if I
don’t do what he says. Lady Mary won’t look twice at me then.”
Dunstan
figured he could go into his usual diatribe about the pestilence of inheritance
laws and shallow youths who expected wealth to be given instead of earned, but
it wasn’t his place. He wouldn’t inquire about the greedy Lady Mary, either. If
Staines was referring to Lord John’s sister, she was cut from the same cloth as
Celia and had been her closest friend. The boy was too young to be involved
with avaricious females, but that was none of his concern.
Deliberately,
Dunstan lit the second cigar with the fire from the first, turned, and held it
out to the viscount. “Lady Leila will cut off your current income if you
interfere,” he warned. “This may not be a fashionable estate, but it will
produce good income sufficient to keep you for a lifetime. Why gamble what you
have in hand for what the future might bring? The earl will have you dancing on
his strings until he dies if you give in now.”
Staines
gazed in trepidation from Dunstan’s smoking cigar to the newly lit one held out
to him. “Leila is likely to live as long as I do.” Hesitantly, he accepted the
roll of tobacco, inhaled, and coughed. “I’ll never be in control of my own
life. She has refused three offers of marriage that I know of. She’s doing it
to thwart me, I vow.”
“That’s
possible, I suppose.” Remembering the lady’s repeated remonstrances, Dunstan
added, “She may just want to make scents, though. Have you talked with her?”
The
viscount’s cigar crackled, then sputtered. He jerked it from his mouth and held
it at arm’s length with an expression of panic.
With
deadpan interest, Dunstan leaned against the window frame, crossed his ankles,
and, with one hand, casually opened the window wider.
Staines
dashed past him and heaved the cigar onto the lawn. It shot a hunk of grass
into the air with a satisfactory bang and a shower of sparks.
“How
did you do that?”
he shrieked, trembling a little as he turned back to eye Dunstan’s peacefully
smoldering tobacco. The boy shoved his hands under his armpits and visibly
attempted to compose himself.
Dunstan
shrugged, closed the casement, and leaning back, blew a smoke ring. “I believe
you were in the same class as Paul, one of my younger brothers. One of my more
inventive brothers thought it vastly amus-ing to show Paul how to make cigars
that exploded in the faces of bullies. I learned to dismantle them early on.
You were saying?”
Irritated
at the failure of his practical joke, the viscount answered petulantly. “Leila
laughs at me and tells me the foxes may hide in her roses as much as they like.
She hates hunting.” He stiffened his shoulders and glared. “The gardens have to
go. Grandfather will be here in September, ready to hunt grouse. If the gardens
aren’t gone by then, he will arrange for you to be.”
Dunstan
grunted. He’d expected that. He lived on the edge of desperation, and never had
to look far to see the drop-off. “I’ll see what I can do, but the lady is in
the right of it. Marry her off, and she’ll no doubt forget about her little
diversion.”
Marry
her off, and he
would no doubt lose his position. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
“I’m not
wasting my time out here all summer,” Staines said. “I’ve better things to do. You
tell her to marry. Pick someone out for her. Marry her yourself. I don’t give a
fart. Just get her out of my hair, and you’ll have a position for life,”
Staines concluded, apparently pleased with his generosity.
“Not very
tempting,” Dunstan pointed out, deflating the boy once again. “I want land and
freedom, not a landless ball and chain. Why should I be interested?”
He wished
he had a choice, but his crop was planted. He couldn’t leave, not until
harvest. His gut twisted, but he refused to give the boy the power of that
knowledge.
The
viscount frowned as if he hadn’t considered paying for what he wanted. Then a
smile lit his beardless face. “If you marry her off, I’ll give you this tenant
farm.”
“You’ll
deed it to me if she marries?” Dunstan could scarcely believe his ears. The boy
had a few loose screws in his brain works, but Dunstan wasn’t one to argue the
proposition. With a farm of his own as the prize, he would contemplate seeking
a suitable mate for her—not that he had a chance of swaying a Malcolm one way
or another.
He
supposed he could speak with her cousin, Ninian, on the off chance that there
was someone Lady Leila might consider marrying.
Staines
nodded eagerly. “The tenant farm isn’t entailed. Get rid of her, and this house
is yours. The acreage is small, but fertile.”
Get
rid of her, Dunstan
thought dourly, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. The implication behind the
command, given his reputation, did not sit well on his already grinding temper.
“I’ll see if I can persuade her to move the gardens, but I make no guarantee on
the rest.”
“I want
her and the gardens gone.” The boy all but stomped his foot. “She is
living on my land, in my house. It isn’t fair.”
Life
wasn’t, but the boy must learn that lesson on his own. “I am not a magician.
You might as well pray that your grandfather dies before September as to hope
Lady Leila will be gone by then.”
“I’d
rather pay than pray. It’s more effective. I learned one or two things in
school.” With the arrogance of youth, the viscount sauntered toward the door.
“I leave her in your hands, Ives. We’ll both be better off without her.”
On that
much he could agree. Dunstan remained propped against the window frame, smoking
his cigar and contemplating a bloody hunting picture on the wall while the
carriage rattled away outside.
Get rid
of the flower gardens by September, or lose his experimental turnips.
Marry her
off, and gain the land it would take him years to earn.
Impossible,
yet tempting.
The brat
was the devil’s own. If the viscount had been one of his younger brothers, he’d
have turned the boy over his knee and walloped some integrity into him.
In an ill
temper, Dunstan stalked out, slapping his boots with his riding crop. He wished
there were someone with a little more maturity and experience to help him argue
this one out, but he knew Drogo would side with the damned Malcolms. That’s
what marriage did to a man, softened his brain. He was on his own now.
He
avoided the flower garden for the rest of the day. He discussed sheep herds,
field drainage, enclosures, and weather with men who respected land as
something more than just another possession. He understood this life. He’d
grown up with it.
He didn’t
understand the labyrinth of aristocratic society.
He didn’t
understand women either, but as the sun descended behind the hills, Dunstan’s
path wandered down the lane toward the mansion. He might slam women behind the
barred door of his mind, but this particular woman was his employer, damn her.
He needed to tell her what her conniving nephew was up to.
That
excuse lasted only as long as it took to see the lady pacing the terrace that
overlooked the unfinished gardens. Her silk skirts swept the cold stones while
her guests laughed and chattered in the elegant parlor behind her. Swinging
from the saddle, he wondered why she was out here alone.
Hair
tightly curled, powdered, and ornamented with a lacy cap, wearing her closely
corseted blacks, Lady Leila in no way resembled the free-spirited Lily, Dunstan
noted with relief as he tethered his horse and strode toward her. He could
resist a haughty aristocrat.
Still,
the way she moved and the scent she exuded aroused him as swiftly as Lily did.
The leather of his breeches threatened to cut off the flow of blood to a
swelling part of his anatomy. Temptation dogged his every footstep these days.
The lady
looked up at his approach, and a cautious smile warmed her features. She was
his employer, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be seduced by a bewitching
female, he told himself. He didn’t return her greeting.
Briefly,
vulnerability was reflected in her features as her smile slipped away. He
refused to let that affect him either.
She had a
bevy of eager suitors in the house behind her. Could he encourage one of them?
Hardly. If they were all the likes of Wickham, he couldn’t blame her for
refusing the twits.
He didn’t
know Wickham well, but if the man couldn’t be trusted with a village wench like
Lily, could he be trusted in the company of a lady? Her young nephew didn’t
seem concerned about the lady’s best interests.
The
thought stirred Dunstan’s protective instincts, and he had to fight against
them. Let her powerful family look after her.
Surrounded
by society and meddling Malcolms, could Lady Leila really be as alone as she
seemed? Impossible. Her femininity must be weakening his brain.
She
turned her haughty gaze on the rosebushes sprouting new greenery. Her pride at
the sight struck a responsive chord in him, and the possibility that they might
share a common passion for living things unnerved him.
“They’re
still alive, I see,” he murmured.
“I can’t
tell about the weak ones.” She returned to pacing. “I suppose it’s too soon. Do
you think we might add a pergola on the far end for climbing roses and
wisteria? It would make a nice transition to the next level, and I could add
benches for resting out of the sun.”
He’d had
all day to think of Staines’s threats and promises. He was an inventive man,
and various arguments to dissuade the lady from her gardens had occurred to
him. He simply didn’t know how best to present them.
Perhaps
if he pretended the regal Leila was as common as Lily, he could speak openly
with her. If he ignored the height that brought the lady past his chin, he
could almost imagine honest Lily beneath her powder and pride.
“This
might not be the best place for a garden,” he suggested cautiously.
She
whipped around as if he’d slapped her. It was too dark to read her expression,
but he could hear fear and wariness in her voice. “Why?”
“Apparently
the earl runs his fox hunts through here. A pack of galloping hunters would
destroy the roses.”
She eyed
him consideringly. “Or the thorns would destroy a few horses. The old man can
find a new place to play. This is my land, to do with as I wish.”
Dunstan
shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from straying elsewhere. She
might be tall for a woman, but she was delicately formed, and he felt like an
oaf next to her. He had no need to impress anyone, but the worm inside his
brain desperately wanted the lady to look at him with the same warmth and
approval that Lily had.
“The
viscount is determined to remain in his grandfather’s good graces,” Dustan went
on. “He is making extravagant promises to me in return for marrying you off.
Isn’t there somewhere else you could plant your gardens?”
“What
extravagant promises?” she demanded.
His
shoulders twitched uncomfortably inside his coat. “He promised to give me a
tenant farm if I persuade you to marry.”
“The
ungrateful little monster,” she muttered, returning to pacing. “I can see Lord
John’s fine hand in this. His sister is on the hunt for a husband, and Staines
is easily malleable.”
“Would
that be Lady Mary?”
“Staines
keeps poor company,” she agreed, without answering directly. “If they twist him
to their thinking, they’ll likely try to murder me so he can have the estate.”
Dunstan
didn’t think the adolescent viscount was that dangerous, but then, he hadn’t
thought himself dangerous either. Alarm filled him at the thought of
jeopardizing another woman with his presence.
“The
viscount and his grandfather have it within their power to destroy my crop as
well as yours with a single ill-timed hunt,” he said. He didn’t think she
understood how serious the consequences would be for him. “You had better be
very certain gardens are what you want. If I lose my crop because of your
disagreement, it would set agricultural advancement back a decade.”
He
watched her wrap her arms around her waist, as if she were holding herself together.
Desire and a need to protect her surged through him again. For a brief,
shattering moment, it only mattered that she was a woman, with all a woman’s
frailties. He ought to comfort and defend rather than berate her.
But he
knew where that would get him—and he couldn’t afford it.
He turned
back to the garden. Work on the stone wall was proceeding nicely. It would fit
in well with the stone terraces he would construct up the hill—if the lady
didn’t marry and lose the land.
“This
conflict is not about turnips or roses,” she finally answered. “It’s about
power and control. Those who have them always want more. People like the earl
will never be satisfied until they have it all, because they think they’re the
only ones who are right.”
She was a
revolutionary, Dunstan realized. He lusted after a witch and a revolutionary.
He cast his gaze skyward and wondered why the devil was tormenting him.
“You have
more power and control than you need,” he said, impatient with the dilemma. “If
you move the gardens, the viscount might be persuaded to leave you alone. Why
should I sacrifice my turnips for a passing fancy?”
“It is
not a fancy. I’m very good at creating perfumes, and I wish to create bases of
my own design. I need all these acres planted.” She gestured toward the grassy
lawn. “More bushes arrived today. Aside from the earl, I am the only family my
nephew has. I would like to see him learn the proper care of his estate, but he
cannot override my wishes so long as this land is mine.”
Dunstan
bit back the reminder that all she had to do was marry and the land would no
longer be hers. She’d hired him to do a job, and he would do it. The temptation
of finding a man to marry her so he could gain possession of the tenant farm
nagged at the back of his mind, but he disliked the idea of being the one to
end her dream, if that’s what the garden represented. “I’ll bring in more men
to wall off the lower garden,” he finally agreed. “Keep the bushes in water
until we can plant them.”
He
started to turn away, but Leila placed a hand on his coat sleeve. He stiffened,
fighting another wave of desire. She had a body to try a man’s soul. He
hungered to haul her by her slender waist into his arms and feel her against
him as if she were Lily. How would her lips taste if he covered them with his?
Would she yield readily to his tongue?
He simply
had to remember that she was a lady and keep his hands to himself.
“Thank
you for telling me,” she murmured, interrupting his lustful ruminations. “Most
men think women no better than beasts in the field, good only for rutting and
fair game for a man’s plots.”
Disgruntled
by her blunt honesty, Dunstan threw up his best defense. “On the whole, men
have but the one thing on their minds and believe women think the same,” he
said harshly. “Women do not always discourage us in those beliefs.”
“Well, in
that case perhaps women are beasts,” she said with amusement, smoothing
his coat sleeve. “But even hens have the right to choose the best rooster. Give
some of us a little credit for good taste.”
“And
credit some of you with fowl taste?”
She
chuckled at his pun. “Some men are strutting cocks,” she agreed. “I just don’t
think most women enjoy being held down by talons on their necks.”
She
sounded like Lily when she talked like that. Without thinking, Dunstan reached
out and rubbed his thumb down the delicate line of her face. She didn’t pull
away. He couldn’t believe he was doing it. He watched his hand as if it
belonged to a stranger.
“Before
the topic strays into breeding practices, I’d best bid you good night.” He
tried not to strangle on the words as her rigid posture softened under his
caress. “This cock knows better than to dally with hens who expect him to pay
the price of his sport.”
She
instantly shoved him away and almost spat her reply. “You have the brain of a
peacock if you think I want payment for your sport.”
That
hadn’t been what he’d meant, but if it got him out of here faster, he would let
it be. He’d spent a long day resisting temptation and he was sorely tried. Two
damned women, and he wanted them both. May the heavens preserve him.
“Someone
always pays,” he retorted and strode off, wondering if it wouldn’t be easier to
find a good cave and become a hermit.
“Hullooo, Mr. Ives,” a cheerful
feminine voice caroled as he stepped outside the cottage the next morning.
Dunstan
blinked in astonishment at the array of colorful silks and golden curls
bouncing up his walk. Fashionable females generally avoided him.
Catching
his breath at the knifing pain of that reminder, he scowled at the intruders,
recognizing Malcolms when he saw them. They must have been the guests the lady
had entertained last night.
“We’ve
brought you a housewarming gift,” the elder cooed, batting her pretty lashes at
him and handing him a beribboned basket.
He held
the frivolous thing on the tip of one finger, wondering what to do with it. Did
unmarried females usually carry gifts to widowers? Or to accused murderers?
“And we
brought an invitation,” the bespectacled younger female said shyly, handing him
a card. “All the local ladies are curious to meet you, and we have promised
that you will be there.”
He
scanned the neat penmanship requesting his presence at dinner at the manor
house that evening. The widow had a whole company to keep her entertained. What
could she want with him, other than the amusement of watching her guests laugh
and whisper behind his back?
He handed
the card back to them. “I have other obligations. Give my regrets to—” He
couldn’t remember if these were sisters or cousins. There were too damned many
of them, and they all looked alike. “—to Lady Leila.”
They
refused to take the proffered card. Two pairs of bright blue eyes stared
soulfully at him from beneath bounteous blond curls. “Oh, you really cannot
refuse,” they said in chorus. The younger continued, “We have promised, and you
would make liars of us. Ninian said you would be nice.” The plea ended on a
hiccuping lament.
They were
but children, scarcely older than his son. Grimacing at the thought of the
fourteen-year-old he’d left behind, Dunstan dug a hand into his hair. Ninian
was an annoying pest, but she’d promised to keep an eye on Griffith for him. He
owed her, and her family, however much he despised being obligated to anyone.
“I can’t
stay long,” he warned.
“Oh, you
will not regret it,” the younger one exclaimed. “We will have so much fun!
Leila has promised us dancing,” she whispered in excitement, as if the idea
were too delicious to say aloud.
Dunstan
bit back a vivid curse. He felt old and jaded in the presence of such youth and
innocence. With nothing better to say, he nodded curtly. The girls waved their
farewells and wandered off, leaving him holding the gaily wrapped basket.
Carefully,
he pulled back the gingham cover. The fragrance of new-mown grass under warm
sunshine wafted upward. Frowning, he poked at the neatly wrapped packages
within and finally peeled off the paper to uncover perfumed soap.
Snorting,
he flung the basket into a chair and proceeded to the stable. Unlike the
gentlemen of London, he preferred a good strong lye soap and a daily bath
rather than covering odors with perfumes and lotions. Hell would freeze before
he’d appear in public smelling of anything but himself.
After
spending a filthy day overseeing the drainage of the fens and avoiding the
garden, where he might run into the too tempting Lady Leila, Dunstan dragged
himself back to the cottage, hoping his housekeeper had left one of her savory
stews on the stove for him.
To his
disappointment, he smelled nothing cooking as he opened the kitchen door and
discarded his muddy boots with the help of a boot hook. He was late today, but
Martha usually left something simmering.
Flinging
his coat and vest over a chair and padding across the stone floor in his
stocking feet, he found Lady Leila’s invitation to dinner propped against the
saltcellar and cursed. He’d forgotten.
He
glanced at the wall clock. He would have to hurry. With no time for a proper
bath, he grabbed the soap at the kitchen sink, started to lather his hands, and
caught the scent of new-mown grass. He’d always liked the scent of grass.
Eyeing the fresh cake skeptically, he tossed it aside and reached for the
sliver of strong soap. Martha must have found the basket and decided to freshen
the kitchen with the scented stuff.
Dropping
his mud-bedecked shirt on the floor, he poured some hot water from the stove
into the sink, scrubbed his chest and shoulders, and shaved. He should be
thankful he was no longer married. A wife would have hysterics seeing him
walking half naked from kitchen to bedchamber. Bachelor life had its
advantages.
Except in
the matter of clothing. He had never wasted much time on London fashion. Poking
through his wardrobe, he found that he’d not spilled anything on the frilled
linen shirt he’d worn to Drogo’s wedding. The fancified breeches still fit, but
he’d ruined the silk stockings. Cotton would have to do. He didn’t want to make
a complete country dolt of himself, but he had no intention of competing with
the beribboned beaus who were finding their way to the widow’s door these days.
This
summer should be a right jolly tickle while he waited to see if the lady
accepted anyone’s offer. Had he thought he had a chance, he ought to join the
parade of suitors himself.
But he
couldn’t do that, not even to a Malcolm. Fear that deadliness might lurk in his
heart chilled any desire to marry again.
Feeling
like a fop in white lace jabot and black satin evening habit, wondering how the
hell he would keep clean on horseback, Dunstan strode out the front door to
discover a carriage waiting for him.
“There
you are, sir. I was about to knock.” The driver opened the door and bowed.
The widow
wasn’t taking any chances. Perhaps he ought to polish a few phrases of flattery
so she’d be satisfied and leave him alone. So lovely to be dragged out after
an exhausting day to be entertained by fools and fops didn’t sound like a
practical suggestion. Perhaps, Madam is too kind to flaunt her charms in my
face, knowing she can scream for help should I reach for them.
Did he
want to reach for the lady’s charms?
Better he
should find Lily. At least she was honest about her desires.
Crossing
his arms and leaning back against the seat, Dunstan scowled as the carriage
swept up a lane illuminated by torches and linkboys running about with
lanterns. The scene was Celia’s favorite fantasy—glittering jewels, gaily
bedecked finery, and prancing fops to bow and flatter and flirt.
He had to
stop thinking so cruelly of his late wife. She’d been young and infatuated with
the idea of someday becoming a countess. Perhaps if he’d indulged her more, she
might have matured enough to see the foolishness of society.
Then
again, perhaps not. Lady Leila obviously hadn’t.
Entering
the chandelier-lit foyer and surrendering his hat to a severely garbed butler,
Dunstan stalked into the mansion’s immense formal parlor. Gilded furniture and
mirrors reflecting elegant gowns bedazzled his eye.
Silence
descended the instant he entered.
Devil
take them all.
Clenching
his jaw and straightening his shoulders, Dunstan strolled across the room as if
he possessed it. Inwardly, his skin crawled. The widow’s London suitors must
have brought the gossip with them. Even the locals watched him with suspicion.
Narrowing
his focus until the entire company disappeared, Dunstan cast his gaze across
the immense handwoven carpet to where the Black Widow waited. He might not know
how to deal with women, but he would learn how to manage this particular
Malcolm, if only for self-preservation.
Lady
Leila smiled beguilingly from beneath a coiffure of tight white curls adorned
with diamond butterflies. Concealing most of her curves with a flowing habit
à la française of black crepe accented in white lace, she drew him like a
bee to nectar. Her provocative touch and enticing perfume haunted his dreams.
Fury simmered at his helpless attraction to her as much as at the idea that
he’d been manipulated into this predicament.
To hell
with Malcolm witches and their beguiling eyes. He captured hers from across the
room.
The
midnight blue of the lady’s gaze sparkled in the candlelight, striking Dunstan
with the force of a blow. Her eyes were the shape and color of Lily’s eyes.
What manner of witch was this, who could steal color from the eyes of another?
Don’t
panic, he told
himself, forcing his nervousness down to his belly and striving to regain his
senses. Use logic. Even Malcolms couldn’t steal eyes. It had to be the
strikingly thick black lashes fooling him. Malcolms were fair and should have
light-colored lashes . . .
He lifted
a suspicious glance to the lady’s powdered curls. What color did the powder
conceal? Was she even a Malcolm? He hadn’t looked closely at the woman in
London. Was this even the same person? She stood as tall as he remembered,
taller than Lily. She wore the cosmetics required of society. She could have
darkened her lashes. Perhaps the illusion was a trick of candlelight. He’d only
seen Lily in the gloom of evening and thunderclouds.
He
couldn’t possibly believe the open, honest Lily could masquerade as a Malcolm,
could he? To what purpose? It had to be the lady.
His
discomfort subsiding beneath a seething fury, Dunstan strode forward.
By the
goddesses, he was magnificent.
Leila
didn’t need Christina’s ability to read auras to know that Dunstan Ives was
toweringly, breathtakingly furious as he navigated the path between them.
He
swaggered through her parlor as if born to a kingdom, his broad back straight
and proud. Though he wore only black with a minimum of lace, he exuded
authority—and glowering majesty. She almost expected her guests to bow before
him.
The man who
halted before her had a tremendous control she couldn’t help admiring. A slight
twitch of his jaw was the only outward manifestation of his discomfort. He made
a gentlemanly bow, sweeping back his long evening coat.
Even
though she could understand his intimidating effect, it amazed her that people
could be so blind as to believe he had murdered his wife. A man like Dunstan
Ives would not soil his hands or waste his time with the blood of an
adulteress, although he might coldly cast her to the wolves and go about his
business without a second thought.
That
realization chilled her and should have been sufficient warning. It wasn’t.
Some imp of hell goaded her on. Or the dire need for this man’s support against
the wolves at her door.
“I am
grateful that you have torn yourself from your work to visit my humble home.”
She smiled for their audience, but sarcasm dripped from her tongue.
The fury
in his eyes could scorch. “And I am humbled that you have been so good as to
invite me,” he repeated, as if by rote.
“Oh, very
good. Now tell me another.” Returned to the coquetry that came to her as
naturally as breathing, Leila drawled with artificial sweetness, “I
particularly like the lies that begin by comparing my eyes to moonlit nights.”
He
straightened and stared down at her as if he were contemplating the matter. It
took him so long to reply that Leila wondered if her coiled hair had come
undone or if her beauty mark had gone askew.
Then she
realized he was studying the way her corset molded her breasts above her
bodice, and heat colored her skin. She considered swatting him with her fan,
but she needed it to cool herself. She had wanted his attention, but this
wasn’t what she’d had in mind. She could have desire from any man. From
Dunstan, she wanted a meeting of the minds.
The
thought of their bodies meeting stimulated far more than her mind. She took a
deep breath, and his gaze burned hotter. She might melt into a puddle and sauté
her toes if he did not respond soon.
“I am an
agronomist, not a poet,” he finally answered. “Perhaps I should compare you to
the fertile valleys between the Gloucester hills?” His words taunted despite
his innocent tone.
“Comparing
me to dirt—how unique.” With a sharp crack, Leila snapped open her fan and
gazed past him to her guests. “You are late. That may be fashionable, but it
gives these fools time to talk. I need to speak with you about Staines, but not
now.”
She could
see her nephew whispering to Lord John and Lady Mary in the far corner. What
mischief did they stir now? She wished she had sufficient influence with the
boy to divert him from those parasites, or that his grandfather would deign to
teach him responsibility. She hated to be the one to stand in the old earl’s
stead, but if she was all Staines had, she would have to find some way to teach
the boy his future role as the owner of vast properties.
Thank
heavens Wickham had had the presence of mind to excuse himself and leave this
morning before encountering Dunstan again. She didn’t need fisticuffs in her
parlor.
“Let us pretend
there is naught on our minds but each other,” she murmured to Dunstan. “It is
time to go into dinner. Give me your arm, and we will lead.”
He
stiffened. “As I told the young ladies, I have other obligations this evening.
You must dine without me.”
“What
obligation could possibly prevent your taking an hour to eat?” she demanded,
refusing to be denied. It was time they learned to deal with each other on an
equal basis. With Dunstan’s formidable aid, she could defeat her nephew’s
annoying plots and rid herself of the hordes of suitors he imposed upon her.
She would like to rip through Dunstan’s thorny emotional walls with a sharp
sickle, but thought it best to try her feminine wiles first.
“I am
your steward, not one of your suitors,” he demurred with just the right tone of
false politeness to prevent her from smacking him. “My presence is not
required.”
“Don’t be
ridiculous. You are the son of an earl, a noted agronomist, and this is a
country gathering.” She instructed him as if he were a child. Irritated by his
continued determination to ignore her, she retaliated. “You are aware
that every man in society desires my company, and that you should be honored by
my request?”
“You will
notice that I do not frequent society,” he retorted.
Leila
gritted her teeth. He did not desire her? Fustian. He’d certainly shown desire
for her as Lily. He simply refused to admit she was one and the same.
Had she
really expected him to? Had she thought she could throw out her snares and reel
him in to do her bidding? How stupid of her. Ives were not men to be led about
by their noses—or other body parts. And Dunstan Ives was a law unto himself.
Perhaps
that was what society sensed and feared. Or—
Perhaps
he feared society and all it represented—including her.
Perhaps
they both preferred Lily, for different reasons.
Fascinated,
Leila dug her fingers into Dunstan’s arm and all but dragged him into the
dining room. Did she sense anxiety beneath the stubborn anger? How could she
find out?
Somewhere
inside him was a man who protected maidens in distress, saved baby rabbits, and
developed turnips for needy farmers, a man who possessed the integrity to warn
her when her nephew schemed against her. She needed to reach that man, to free
him from his self-imposed prison. Perhaps then he might see that she wanted the
same thing he did—respect for their abilities.
If she
could not entice him with her usual snares, or reason with him as an equal, or
call upon his chivalry, how could she persuade him that she might have a useful
gift related to her talent for scents?
Observing
how Dunstan stonily ignored her guests in the same manner as they ignored the
possible murderer in their midst, Leila hid a smile of triumph as the answer to
her dilemma materialized.
All she
had to do was discover who had killed Dunstan’s wife.
With his
name cleared, perhaps he would feel as free to speak with the Lady Leila as he
did the village Lily. Of course, once he discovered how she had manipulated
him, he would no doubt explode like some foreign volcano.
But even
that thought excited her.
Stiffly,
Dunstan seated Lady Leila at the head of the table. Her exotic scent filled his
senses and made his head whirl. She might be too tall and grand to be Lily, but
he desired her in the same way. It was insane, not to mention dangerous.
Her
giggling young sisters followed them to the table, their gleaming golden locks
reminding him with whom he was dealing. Malcolms! They would wrap him in
invisible webs and squeeze what they wanted out of him.
What was
it they wanted?
To his
horror, he discovered that Lady Leila had seated him at her right, with one of
her sisters on his far right and the other directly across the table.
Desperately, he reached for his wineglass, then remembered that alcohol relaxed
his control. He couldn’t afford to lose his head in this company.
“You have
the aura of a thundercloud,” the older sister whispered. “Do you not like
dinner parties?”
They were
children. He couldn’t yell at children. Dunstan scowled at Lady Leila on his
left, but she was giving instructions to a footman.
“I do not
have polite conversation,” he replied. “Unless you wish to discuss the benefits
of marl in poor soil, I cannot keep you entertained.”
The
younger one, Felicity, leaned forward. “We could discuss your late wife. That’s
what everyone else is doing. Did you really fight a duel with Mr. Wickham’s
brother over her?”
He had no
intention of telling her what had happened that day.
Why the
devil did she wear her gloves at the dinner table? Grumpily assessing this
Malcolm eccentricity, Dunstan responded more curtly than he intended. “I’m a
farmer. I don’t fight duels.” He glanced again at his hostess, who was chatting
with the vicar on her left. Why the deuce had she placed him here? He tugged at
his constricting neckcloth.
“I heard
your wife died in some outlandish out-of-the-way place,” Christina continued,
“and that Mr. Wickham’s brother was the only possible witness, and you killed
him. But you do not have the aura of a killer.”
Dunstan
glared at Christina. She observed him in return with interest and not an iota
of fear or ill will. He tried to look away and examine Lady Leila’s
midnight-blue eyes instead, but she was sipping from her wineglass with her
lashes lowered. She had no doubt inflicted these bothersome girls on him for
some nefarious purpose.
“You have
probably slain more beaus with your wiles than I have slain with my fists,” he
told Christina through gritted teeth.
Across
the table Felicity giggled. “I’ve never felt anyone vibrate a table before. You
are a most intriguing man, Mr. Ives.”
Dunstan
sought Lady Leila’s attention again, but she had now engaged the vicar in a
debate over the merits of mulching roses. He longed to join the discussion, but
the determined child on his right was analyzing his aura again. Dunstan
slumped gloomily, in his seat.
Surveying
the laughing company, he caught the disdainful glance of Lady Mary, a
feebleminded goose who had been Celia’s best friend. Dunstan gulped his water
as if it were ale, but that didn’t prevent him from noticing Lady Mary’s
brother, Lord John, murmuring to the young viscount. When Staines glanced up at
Dunstan with surprise, Dunstan figured his days on the estate were numbered,
and discarding his water, he reached for the wine.
Focusing
on the beautiful woman on his left, who was laughing merrily at something her
sister had said, he fretted that the lady was the only obstacle between him and
complete humiliation. How long before the forces of society battered her into
submission?
As soon
as the ladies departed from the table, he would escape this hell. If his
employer wished to speak with him, she could do it on his terms, on his
grounds.
“Those
dark Ives looks give me shivers.” Wrapped in the linen folds of her nightdress,
spectacles perched on the end of her nose, Felicity curled up in the middle of
Leila’s bed. “I think they eat Malcolms for midnight snacks.”
Leila hid
a smile at her sister’s innocence. The child would learn of male appetites soon
enough. “We need not have anything to do with Ives men,” she reassured her.
Her sisters
need not have anything to do with an Ives. She did. Drat the wretched
man for escaping before they could talk after dinner.
“I’d much
rather talk with Ives men,” Christina said excitedly, putting down her
hairbrush. “Perhaps we could discover who really did kill Celia.”
“I
scarcely think that’s a wise idea unless we can tell truth from rumors,” Leila
replied, pacing her bedchamber. Her mother would berate her from now until
doomsday if she involved her sisters in such an investigation. But how could
she distract them when her own thoughts kept straying in that direction?
“They say
Celia spent all Dunstan’s money and ran away with the jewels he’d bought for
her,” Felicity offered.
“Rumor
has it that Dunstan found Celia and her lover together,” Christina added. “A
passionate man might kill in the heat of the moment. But he seems far too cold
for that.”
Leila
stared out the dark window to the lights of Dunstan’s cottage. “I have watched
him. He does not respond as other men when goaded. The more furious he becomes,
the more discipline he displays.”
Of
course, he had almost broken Wickham’s neck the other night when he heaved him
across the field.
“Do we
know where the murder took place?” Christina asked.
“At an
inn in Baden-on-Lyme, not far from the Ives estate,” Leila replied. The
location gave Dunstan opportunity, in addition to motive, and was another
reason why society condemned him. Who else could have followed Celia so easily,
or would have wished her dead?
Even
Felicity looked interested now. “I don’t suppose Celia left a journal or
anything I could touch?”
“Not that
I know of,” Leila said sharply. “And you’re not to stop at the inn and ask.”
While her
sisters fell eagerly into discussing the murder, Leila watched wistfully from
her window. She wished she could be the one to solve the murder, but all she
knew how to do was produce perfume. She would need to enlist the help of
Ninian, or perhaps her powerful aunt Stella, if she was to help clear Dunstan’s
name.
If her
family saved his reputation, she could find a way to offer Dunstan a good
life—one in which he didn’t have to hide behind his mask of indifference.
Unless
she was deceiving herself, and he had killed Celia, of course. That
could be a problem.
Standing in the courtyard where a carriage waited to return her sisters
to London, Leila hugged each in turn. “I will miss you. I’m sorry I won’t be
there for your come-outs. Have Maman or Aunt Stella send some of the
younger ones to keep me entertained in your absence.”
“You
would overshadow us if you returned to London,” Christina said, hugging her
back. “Although that might not be a bad thing. Maybe Harry would fall in love
with you, and I could be free to choose my own husband.”
“That
won’t happen,” Felicity said gloomily, returning her spectacles to her pocket.
“Not unless you lie and say he has a muddy aura or some such.”
“Then
they might find me an old man, which would be worse.” Christina picked up her
cloak and tied her bonnet strings. “It’s a pity the other Ives men have no titles
or wealth. They’re far more interesting than anyone else I’ve met.”
“Dangerous,
you mean. Only ninnyhammers prefer dangerous men,” Felicity said, tucking her
book into her basket. “You haven’t been the same since you saw the lot of them
at Ninian’s wedding, all dark and glowering and blowing up the place with a
cannon.”
“It
wasn’t a cannon,” Leila corrected. “It was an old musket. Now go on with the
two of you. I’ve work to do, and you have a long way to travel.” Stifling pangs
of envy and loneliness, she bustled them into their carriage.
She
sighed as the horses pulled away in a splatter of mud. She’d had family and
society around her for as long as she could remember. Perhaps her place was
with family, as the ungifted one guiding her sisters through their Seasons. Was
she being arrogant and self-absorbed to assume that her perfumes might have
some value?
Glancing
up at the windows of the separate apartment her young nephew kept, she set her
chin determinedly. Staines might as well realize that she had no intention of
backing down. Her land would go for flowers.
As much
as she would like to strangle her husband’s nephew, she understood Staines’s
need to belong somewhere. His own father had died and left him nothing. The old
earl took an interest in him only when the boy did something of which he
disapproved. Leila didn’t feel qualified to lecture him on the company he kept.
He would have to learn for himself the difference between real friends and
false.
Perhaps
he simply needed a little more time to grow up—somewhere else, preferably—until
he rid himself of sycophants like Lord John and Wickham.
She
longed to oversee the progress of her garden and talk with Dunstan, but the
sound of voices through the open windows of the breakfast room reminded her of
her many obligations. What would it take to send the leeches away?
Could she
persuade her suitors to pursue a more eligible marriage partner? Leila
brightened as the advantages of this plan took root. Should Lord John find a
wealthy wife, he needn’t pass his sister off on her nephew, as seemed to be his
current intention.
She could
outfox Lord John in the blink of an eye. Hurrying into the house, Leila caught
up a letter from her solicitor on her desk and folded it so her houseguests
could not see the writing. With an innocent demeanor, she drifted into the
breakfast room where the lazy louts gorged on her cook’s hearty fare like the
locusts they were. “Ah, there you are, Staines. I’ve just received a letter
from my dear friend Lydia. She’s in Bath and complaining of the lack of elegant
society. I think I shall gather a company and relieve her boredom. The country
grows tedious.”
Her
nephew shrugged and speared a bite of egg. Lord John looked up with interest.
“Lydia Derwentwater?” he asked. “She just came into an inheritance, didn’t she?
Why is she in Bath?”
“To spend
it,” Leila replied. “You should enjoy meeting her. She owns some of the best
hunting stock in the country.”
That
caught Staines’s interest as well. Lady Mary’s bland features flickered with a
scowl, and Leila wickedly decided that sending her nephew to another woman
might be a fine idea. “Besides, Maman and Aunt Stella are talking of
sending the young ones to stay here until the Season ends. The place will be
inundated with nannies and governesses.”
The look
of panic on all three faces was priceless. Content that she’d done her worst,
Leila swept away in search of her gardening hat. She had an idea for a fountain
and was eager to ask Dunstan about it.
If she
could just reach some degree of understanding with her damned steward, they
could discuss what to do with Staines over the longer term.
She found
Dunstan riding through the garden, overlooking its progress. The clouds had
departed, and he’d doffed both coat and vest in the warmth of the sun. He appeared
as much a part of his animal as the horse’s mane.
Leila
breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of oxen pulling the sled while Dunstan
rode his horse along the perimeter, surveying work on the wall. He hadn’t
turned against her after his conversation with Staines and last night’s
uncomfortable dinner party. Thank heavens.
She loved
the idea of having a man who would stand up for her, even if she had to pay him
to do it. If she correctly understood the reason behind his surliness, Dunstan
Ives had probably been loyal to his adulterous wife while she lived and
continued to hold his opinion of her to himself after she was dead. She should
never have worried that a man who was so loyal and trustworthy would bow to
Staines’s wishes against her own.
Standing on
the edge of the lawn, Leila surveyed the work done so far. A path that wound
between lavender, roses, and delphiniums had begun to take shape, constructed
with small pebbles taken from a nearby stream. As she studied the developing
landscape, she watched Dunstan on horseback with fascination. It wasn’t just
his imposing size that held her interest, but his air of authority and command.
If she was right about his high integrity, he was the kind of man she’d once
dreamed of having for herself.
As
Dunstan’s gaze fell upon her, Leila’s heart beat faster. Rather than let him
see what must be clearly written on her face, she lifted her unwieldy skirts
and paced the rows in search of the ideal place for her fountain.
He
instantly urged his steed across the field and dismounted next to her. “The
field is no place for a lady. It distracts the men and slows the work. You do
want the garden completed sometime this summer?” he asked mockingly.
She tried
not to gape at the sweat-soaked linen plastered to his broad chest. He’d
obviously been working as hard as any laborer. She let her gaze dip down to the
flat muscles of his abdomen beneath tight breeches. Oh, my.
He
stiffened and reached for the vest he’d discarded across his saddle, but his
gaze never left hers as he tugged on the long garment.
Skirts
blowing about her ankles, Leila searched his face. She enjoyed his odor of
responsibility, but lust tended to override all else. He didn’t avoid her eyes
this time. Did he see her? Really see her? She longed to talk with him as woman
to man without any walls between them.
She had
the power to make him see her for who she was, if she was brave enough.
Excitement
beat in Leila’s chest. “I wish to help. Where should I start?” she asked with a
deliberately Lily-like toss of her head, even though her curls were bound tight
and hidden beneath her wide hat brim.
She
watched his gaze linger a moment too long on the powdered strand curling above
her neckerchief, and she smiled in satisfaction.
He nodded
curtly toward the far end of the row. “They’ve dumped a pile of manure over
there,” he taunted. “You could dig it into the bed.”
So much
for pleasantries. As if he’d forgotten her existence, Dunstan turned away from
her, ordered the men back to work, then crisscrossed the field, stopping to
haul away stones when necessary and guiding the oxen over difficult ground.
She
realized she was standing outside the familiar world into which she’d been
born, and uncertainty hampered her. Perhaps her instincts were wrong. Perhaps
Dunstan didn’t desire her. He certainly did an excellent job of ignoring
her.
Leila
strolled down the row of recovering roses, listening to the laborers curse the
stones, the animals, and the heat. They never cursed Dunstan, but listened when
he spoke, obviously fearing the man while respecting his knowledge.
As she
studied her stubborn steward, the scent of him emerged inside her mind, a scent
she yearned to replicate in her laboratory. Could one replicate power and
authority? She would combine it with the earthy scents of grass and dirt, well
doused in musk. The different aromas played notes in her head that aroused and
excited her. She would make a fool of herself shortly if she did not
concentrate on roses instead of Dunstan.
In the
warmth of the sun, her heavy gown began to stick to her back as much as
Dunstan’s shirt clung to his, and she wished for Lily’s simpler attire. She
would become filthy and malodorous if she remained out in the sun and manure.
So would
Dunstan.
Leila’s
thoughts flitted to the bathing place she had found on her first visit to this
estate. She thought it might once have been a holy well where the goddesses
dwelt. She had no difficulty mixing the pagan beliefs of her ancestors with
civilized religion. In actuality, she’d never given religion much thought at
all, but the bathing place was a world of its own, and she craved it now.
Could she
profane such a place with an Ives?
It was a
heathen idea borne of her heathen sensuality, but Malcolms had never bothered
with the normal boundaries of civilization. Maybe her ancestry was finally
calling to her. Instead of stifling her natural instincts, shouldn’t she obey
and see where they led?
Excitement
coursed through Leila at the possibility. Stripped of all the refinements of
her privileged position, she could revert to the pagan residing inside her. She
could find her inner essence, and maybe, someday, it would lead to her Malcolm
gift.
Then
perhaps Dunstan would see her for who she really was—a woman like no other, and
one who valued his opinion.
Energized
by the thought of having a true helpmate in this project, she glanced sideways
at Dunstan and discovered him looking back at her. Tension swelled between them
as he studied the way she dabbed her handkerchief at the perspiration trickling
down her throat to her breasts. He reined his horse onward, taking his gaze
away, but Leila felt it like a living thing rippling across her skin. He did
desire her, as Adam desired Eve.
He
desired her whether she was Lily or Leila. That was a starting place.
She’d
never given her body to a man other than her husband. Stooping to check another
bush for buds, Leila let her imagination conjure images of Dunstan naked and
aroused. She could imagine even further than that, and moisture pooled between
her legs, making her tremble.
Desire,
hot and thick, hampered her thoughts. When Dunstan ordered the men to take a
dinner break, she sat on the wall of rocks and took deep breaths.
She
needed the field plowed. Dunstan mustn’t stop now.
But there
was nothing to prevent them from visiting her cave once the work was done.
How would
she get him there? Did she dare?
Would the
experience open his eyes and persuade him to see Leila as Lily? Or would it
just enrage him past caring?
Nothing
ventured, nothing gained.
Deciding
Dunstan was much more likely to follow Lily than Leila, she offered him a
beaming smile that left him looking stunned, then skirts swaying, she left the
field.
Women
plotted methods of driving men mad, Dunstan decided as the men dragged
themselves out of the field at day’s end. The image of Lady Leila watching him
with Lily’s eyes still seared his mind.
He’d
wager the mystery of the lady’s eyes could easily be solved if he applied his
mind to it. Lady Leila had probably thrown him together with one of her
family’s by-blows for some design that was beyond his ability to comprehend.
His family tree had sufficient illegitimate twigs on it for him to know the
high probability of such occurrences. For all he knew, Lady Leila and Lily were
plotting together to make him insane. They looked enough alike to think alike.
The
wretched memory of last night’s dinner clawed at his insides. Lady Leila was an
older, more experienced version of Celia at her worst—with nothing better to do
with her idle life than taunt and torment.
And yet midnight-blue
eyes had haunted his sleep. Lily’s eyes, he decided. Not the lady’s.
Lady
Leila smelled of roses and powder. Lily smelled of mud and fresh air. They
couldn’t be one and the same. He desired the free-spirited wench, not the
corseted proper lady.
Even as
he thought of her, Lily slipped into the field through a thicket of old hedge
he’d not ripped out yet. While he watched, she stooped to examine a rosebush
just as the lady had done earlier. Black curls tumbled down her back, lifting
in the evening breeze.
Dunstan
removed his sodden handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and wearily
picked up the horse’s reins, ignoring the tempting female whirling about in
happy circles beneath the newly constructed arch at the garden entrance. With a
concerted effort, he focused on admiring the loamy furrows of rich earth
spreading around him and savored a sense of accomplishment.
Neat rows
and new green leaves lined the landscape as far as the eye could see. The stone
wall prevented the lambs from gamboling through the lavender beds. The first
timbers of a pergola stood at the end of a curving garden path.
Trying
not to think too hard of the havoc a bratling like Staines could wreak on these
gardens and his crops, Dunstan grudgingly admired the woman who was expressing
her delight with such exuberance. His respect for Lily was based on more than
lust. Whoever or whatever she was, she’d ensnared him with her lightheartedness
and quick wit as much as with the enticing blue of her eyes.
Unlike
the lady’s corseted gown, the bright blue linen of Lily’s bodice clung to
breasts as full and unfettered as ripe melons. Lily—his mind insisted. Lily of
the valley, a wildflower free for the taking. Lily of the muddy fingers and
tart tongue and refreshing honesty. Lily, who lacked proper respect for his
authority.
Because
she wasn’t just Lily?
Groaning,
Dunstan dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. He still had to lead the oxen
back to their field.
He was a
man, and men lusted after beguiling wenches like Lily. He could accept that.
But he could never fall for a manipulative Malcolm. He simply couldn’t conceive
of it, didn’t dare think of it. He preferred keeping the two women separate in
his mind—the legitimate lady and her illegitimate cousin.
No
fluttering fans or powdered hair or artificial beauty patches disguised the
female who was currently playing hide-and-seek with her cat. Dunstan could
almost feel the thrust of her breasts in his palms, so keenly did he want them.
Once, he’d touched her with his crude hands, and she hadn’t objected.
Sweat
poured from his brow. He wiped it on his shirtsleeve. He wanted to strip off
his shirt, but he didn’t dare—her presence prevented it. Another part of him
wanted to don his coat and hide behind it, as if she were the lady he feared—
He was
afraid of Lady Leila.
A cold
shiver of shock shot down his spine. Afraid of a woman?
Afraid of
a lady—like Celia.
The door
in his mind slammed open, ripped off its hinges.
Midnight-blue
eyes lifted to watch him, and Dunstan couldn’t swallow the lump of panic in his
throat as their gazes met. Lily’s fingers molded and patted the rich soil
around a loose rose cane, and he could almost feel those fingers kneading his
bare flesh.
Maybe
Lady Leila was the phantom. Maybe Lily had stepped into her shoes. Maybe he was
going mad.
Maybe
he’d better run for his life, but his life would be worth nothing if he ran.
What would happen if he stayed and acted on the tension building between them?
What would his life be if she really were the lady whom all his instincts
feared?
His mind
refused to juxtapose the elegant, aloof lady with her delicate black gloves and
jewels against the image of the accessible lass digging her dirty fingers into
the raw soil. Where was the fair-haired, haughty Malcolm in this dark-haired,
rebellious gypsy?
Would a
real lady kneel in the dirt and look for rabbits? Celia wouldn’t have.
Ladies
didn’t belong in fields. Ladies weren’t supposed to perspire. Yet he’d
forgotten the one important element in all of this—
Lady
Leila was no ordinary lady. She was a Malcolm.
And he
was looking at a Malcolm—irrevocably and irretrievably a confusing, conniving,
surely illegitimate Malcolm, despite all appearances to the contrary.
He wanted
two women, and both were Malcolms.
Dunstan tugged the oxen’s harness, intending to lead them back to
pasture, but Lily’s magical voice halted him in his tracks. “I have something
I’d like to show you.”
She
had a lot he’d like to see. Grimacing in exasperation as his unruly thoughts took a wrong turn
before he’d even left the field, Dunstan glanced briefly in her direction.
She’d
skipped across the furrows until she stood mere yards away from him. A rising
breeze caught her black curls, lifting them off her shoulders to uncover curves
molded by a V of perspiration. Firm and high, her breasts taunted him.
He liked
the bright blue on her—so much happier than the widow’s weeds Leila wore.
“I must
take the oxen back,” he answered curtly, leading the animals away. He didn’t
know what game she played, but he’d be better to stay out of it.
“We go
through their pasture to reach the place I want to show you.” She hurried
across the remaining rows to join him. “You will like this place, I promise.”
He was
too tired to argue. Or too riddled with lust. He drove the oxen toward the
gate, all too aware of the woman striding easily beside him. She carried
herself as regally as a lady in her parlor. Beneath the aroma of manure, he
detected the hint of rose perfume. How could he have missed that earlier?
Perhaps
Lady Leila had given the perfume to her, as she’d given the soap to him. He
tried to shut the door in his mind. He couldn’t put all the pieces together—the
blatant provocativeness, the easy laughter, and blunt honesty of Lily with the
sultry flirtatiousness, conniving eccentricity, and regal elegance of Lady
Leila.
A
taunting voice in his head warned him that all women looked alike in the dark.
All he had to do was close his eyes.
Except
that he didn’t dare close his eyes around a Malcolm.
Lily
seemed preoccupied and tense, as if uncertain of her invitation now that she’d
given it. Perhaps she would change her mind, and he could go home to soak in a
tub of hot water.
He
refused to look at her again. Until he could provide for his own livelihood, he
had no right to look at any woman, aristocrat or otherwise. His private
investigator had reported he’d made little progress in discovering Celia’s
killer. It could be a lengthy and expensive investigation. The real murderer
might never be known. He might never comprehend the depth of his own depravity.
With the
oxen safely in their enclosed pasture, Dunstan glanced at the setting sun. “A
full moon tonight,” he commented idly. “A good night for planting.”
He sensed
more than saw her startled look.
“Were you
planning on planting anything?” she asked, striking out across the field
without looking back to see if he followed.
“They’re
planting at the south farm today and tomorrow. That’s why the oxen were free.”
Wondering where she could possibly be leading him, Dunstan took more interest
in his surroundings. They’d circled the hill and come out on the other side,
where weather had eroded the loose soil, exposing outcroppings of rock.
Definitely not suitable for planting here. He could see why the late Lord
Staines had chosen this site for the widow’s dower house. That, and the trees
on the hillside. Malcolms loved trees.
The two
women, Leila and Lily, blended together in his head—haughty Lady Leila with her
hints of vulnerability and brazen Lily with her lack of servility.
The
thought that the two women could be one who had tricked him for a reason beyond
his ken irritated the back of his mind. What the devil could she be up
to—whoever she was?
“Do
flowers fare better if they’re planted in the full of the moon?” she inquired,
scrambling over a large rock.
“Probably,
although I’ve never planted flowers, so I can’t say. Are we going rock
climbing?” Dunstan reluctantly followed. He couldn’t imagine Lady Leila
climbing rocks.
When Lily
attempted to climb onto a ledge that was almost as high as she was, he caught
her waist and lifted her up. His palm brushed the softness of a full buttock,
and he winced with a surge of reawakened desire. This woman could not be Lady
Leila. Touching a lady with such familiarity would have resulted in having his
head knocked off his neck.
Yet even
Lily had swatted him the first day they met.
When his
steps hesitated, she glanced back impatiently. “It’s right here. We won’t go
far.”
He swung
his booted foot over the ledge and hauled himself up so he could stand beside
her. In the twilight, he could just discern a darkened crevice between two
slabs of upright boulders. “A cave? You want me to see a cave?”
“Not just
any cave. A special cave. You’ll see.” She fumbled among the rocks until
she produced a flint and taper.
He struck
the flint for her, and she thrust the candlewick into the spark. The flame
shone wanly in the daylight, but brightened as she slipped through the opening.
Dunstan
had to squeeze through edgewise to follow, ducking to keep from knocking his
head. Lily waited for him inside, her candle casting shadows over a high cavern
that smelled of dampness and soil. She stood tall and proud as any lady, and he
no longer fought to separate the two women. He simply knew he wanted this
woman, couldn’t have her, and that he tempted the devil to follow her anywhere.
“Fascinating,”
he said wryly, not seeing beyond her supple curves and a banner of silken hair.
“Isn’t
it?” she agreed in awe, not realizing where his thoughts had traveled. “You can
feel the power here. The gods must have blessed this place.” She moved forward,
taking the light with her.
Crazy
Malcolms, Dunstan
thought. If he needed any more proof of her lineage, black hair or fair,
talking of gods and power should do it. Unless all women were plagued with
fantasies of things that remained unseen.
“There,”
she announced with satisfaction, coming to a halt before a grotto of rising
steam.
Forgetting
the conundrum of her identity, Dunstan blinked in disbelief. Bubbling water
smelling of minerals foamed at the base of the moss-covered rocks he stood
upon. Someone had carefully cultivated a garden of vines that climbed and clung
to the walls, reaching for the sun that must shine through the hole above,
where he could see stars now. Flowery perfume wafted beneath his nose, and he
almost expected faerie lights to twinkle around them.
“What is
this place?” He’d intended to sound curt, but a note of awe spoiled the effect.
It had been a long, long time since he’d enjoyed a sight like this one.
Her
laughter floated like harpsichord notes—not beside him, but below. Startled, he
tore his gaze from the amazing greenery to examine the bubbling spring. He
could see only a pool of blackness.
“It’s
wonderfully warm,” she called. “Come, join me.”
He damned
well couldn’t even see her. She’d been standing right there beside him,
where the taper flickered from a notch upon the wall—where her filthy gown and
petticoat now lay flung across an outcropping.
She was
naked and bathing in the spring.
The
breath caught in his lungs, and heat poured into a part of his anatomy that had
led him into more trouble than he cared to remember. He mustn’t succumb.
Mustn’t let her magic draw him deeper—to places he shouldn’t go but that every
male part of him demanded he explore.
Yet she
could be in danger in that black pit, he told himself. It was enough to lead
him to the brink of temptation.
He
couldn’t see her in this midnight blackness. Apprehensively, he sat on the edge
of the pool and jerked off his boots and stockings. What if she bumped her head
on the rocks and drowned herself? “Are you all right?”
“I’m
fine. It’s not deep.”
Light
from the taper leapt and played along the ebony surface beneath the starlit
hole above, but below, the water’s edge disappeared into deep shadows, frothing
beneath him, yet invisible elsewhere. He still couldn’t see her.
The
steaming water beckoned. He could almost imagine the feel of it against the
sticky sweat on his skin. But it wasn’t the temptation of a heated bath that
called to him.
This
woman had trusted him with knowledge of this special place, expected him to
enjoy it as she did. He knew how it felt to have a heart’s desire treated as
nothing. He couldn’t wound her by disparaging her dreams any more than he could
have harmed his younger brothers.
Dunstan
hauled his linen shirt over his head. Steam from the pool caressed his bare
chest. He stood and stripped off his breeches.
Logic
screamed for him to grab his boots and run. Pride, lust, and darker emotions
overruled the thought of ignominious retreat.
Velvet
moss eased his entry into the steaming waters. Instant heat soaked through his
weary flesh, drawing him deeper. The healing power of mineral water relaxed
every taut muscle, and Dunstan groaned in relief. If the little witch thought
to seduce him, she’d underestimated the effects of a hot bath.
Little
witch.
Warning
bells clamored, but heated languor slowed his brain, and a musical voice
distracted.
“There
should be soap on the ledge behind you.”
Caught in
the spell of the pool, he’d momentarily forgotten her. Steam rose around him,
making it impossible to see his hand in front of his face. No longer wary, he
groped along the ledge until he located the waxy oval. He’d never taken a
mineral bath. He thought he could learn to enjoy the experience.
“Are you
certain we should use this place?” he called into the darkness. The pool only
reached his waist at the deepest point, so he lost his fear that she would
drown in it.
“The gods
own this place. Ask their permission.” Amusement laced her voice, combined with
the rhythmic splashes of bathing.
The
soap’s scent reminded him of the bars Lady Leila had sent with her sisters. The
aroma of new-mown grass blended with the earthy odor of the cave in a subtly
pleasing combination.
Ducking
his head beneath the water, scrubbing at the day’s grime, Dunstan thought he’d
never experienced such a thorough sense of well-being. She was right. He didn’t
know the how or why of it, but this was a special place. He should thank her
for it.
Enough
soaks in here, and he might scrub out all the tension and anguish of the past
few years, even if he couldn’t scrub away the memories. Perhaps he could bottle
this water. He would send a vial to his brothers for further study. The
minerals might have some beneficial effect, like those in Bath were said to
possess. In fact, this might be a related spring.
He
grasped for rationality rather than thinking of the woman splashing naked and
free somewhere in the pool beside him. In here, she was a nameless, faceless
female, with no confusing eyes or hair color to distract him. Her name no
longer mattered.
Standing
again, Dunstan raked his dripping hair back from his face. Refreshed and
invigorated, he glanced around the mossy chamber with interest, feeling more in
control.
Moonlight
poured through the opening above. A silver glow illuminated the dangling
greenery, and he thought he detected tiny white flowers like little stars
peeking through the moss on the walls.
Dunstan
searched the darkness for the sorceress who’d brought him here. “Lily?”
“I think
I could live in here,” she called softly, much closer than before.
A flash
of white and green swung by, and he stepped backward in surprise.
Laughter
trilled out of the darkness, and the ghostly form swept by again. This time, he
recognized the apparatus, and his eyes widened, studying the dangling vines.
Someone had hung a swing from the roof.
In the
silvery light, he traced the vine-covered rope until it disappeared into the
gloom over his head. It couldn’t be safe. He transferred his gaze back to the
specter in white flitting back and forth on the swing. Lily, of course. Brazen
woman.
The wet
gauze of her chemise trailed behind her as she swung. The breeze from her
movement plastered it like a transparent skin to her body. Already drying, her
black curls spilled in tendrils down her back and over the water when she
leaned back to pump the swing higher.
Dunstan
tumbled through some hole in time to his youth, where all things were possible
and each day presented one miracle after another for his pleasure. He could smell
the grass he’d rolled in, feel the potency of adolescence. Years of cynicism
dropped away, leaving him buoyant as he waded through the pool to her
ridiculous swing.
She
laughed in delight when he caught the ropes and brought her to a halt. She
didn’t fear him as others did, and that alone lightened his burden. She trusted
him.
She saw
beyond his reputation and trusted what she saw. He could feel the realization
cracking the rock-solid barrier he’d erected in self-defense against the
cruelties of society. He’d never fully comprehended how much unswerving trust
could mean.
Holding
the rope, Dunstan looked down into eyes of dancing mischief almost hidden
behind a curtain of thick black lashes. The steam had turned her cheeks rosy,
and her full lips glistened temptingly. He only meant to thank her, to push her
swing as one would play with a child.
Except
she wasn’t a child.
With the
scent of burgeoning spring rising between them, Dunstan bent and cautiously
placed his mouth across hers, prepared to retreat at the first sign of protest.
Lightning
struck and fire scorched his bones at her passionate response. The heat rising
through his bare limbs was no longer derived from water. Full lips melted to
lush invitation, and Dunstan released the rope to clasp female curves perfectly
fitted to his wide hands. His fingers reveled in the touch of heated silk.
She
didn’t shove him away.
Hundreds
of lonely nights dissolved with the sigh of her desire. He could no more resist
that sigh than the sun could resist rising in the morn.
She
moaned beneath the insistent slant of his mouth and opened to the command of
his tongue. He dived deeper, exploring the taste of honey, wrapped in the
intoxicating scent of wine and roses. He could do this without losing control.
They didn’t have to go beyond kisses. He held her trapped and clinging to the
ropes. He could stop at any time, he told himself, and no one the wiser. He
just wanted one more little taste . . .
Boldly,
he slid his hands up to capture the full globes of her breasts beneath wet
linen, relishing feminine roundness yielding against his rough hands. Once
there, he couldn’t resist brushing his thumbs across the puckered crests.
Instead
of breaking the kiss, she murmured against his mouth and rocked closer. With
that unspoken permission, Dunstan stepped between her thighs so she could not
mistake the extent of his arousal. The musky heat of her beckoned the animal
part of him that had overtaken his thinking. The swing was a perfect height.
Only a scrap of gauze barred the gateway to heaven.
“Please,”
she murmured urgently against his mouth.
He
deepened the kiss, and indulged in the sensual pleasure of stroking a woman’s
softness. Her equal excitement drew him on, one irresistible step after
another.
Pulling
away from her honeyed mouth, Dunstan dipped his head to sample the heady liquor
of her breast through the veil of her chemise. She gasped and leaned back,
still clinging to the rope but offering herself more fully and freely than any
woman in his life had ever done.
The experience
awoke in him a frightening urge to become part of her, to see where she could
take him.
Despite
the warnings clamoring in the back of his mind, he couldn’t not step
closer. Cupping her hips, Dunstan swung her into him, suckled deeper, and was
rewarded with her shudders of pleasure. He could still escape. He could still
walk off and end this madness. He was a man of formidable discipline, not one
who must rut like a beast in the field. He would stop—as soon as he gave her
pleasure in return for what she had given him.
He slid
his hand across her bare thigh, pushed aside the fine linen, and stroked her
moist curls, locating the center of her sex.
She
almost slid off the swing at his caress. Hastily relinquishing temptation,
Dunstan caught her waist to prevent her from falling away from him.
Standing
naked so close between her thighs, his hands occupied in keeping her seated,
there seemed a simple means of providing the pleasure she craved. If he pushed
inside, just a little, he could ease the tension pumping through them. The
mystery of who or what she was outside of here was no longer as important as
who they were together, right now.
Pressing
his fingers into the firm flesh of her waist and buttocks, Dunstan let the
ecstasy of moist heat tempt him. Angling her hips and the swing, he rubbed
cautiously against the nub that made her quiver.
He hadn’t
considered the danger of her long, shapely legs wrapping around his thighs,
lifting her hips higher—until his short strokes combined with her strong pull
drove him fully into her, and she cried out in delight.
Sweat
poured off his brow, and his blood surged to the place where they were joined.
He’d learned how to draw back before release. It was only release he feared. He
couldn’t afford to create any more babes. Holding perfectly still, he took her
mouth and drank deeply.
She
licked his lips, sucked his tongue with eagerness, and fell back on the rope
swing until the seat almost swung away. Dunstan grabbed her hips and supporting
her weight, swung her back. Pure, intoxicating pleasure gripped him as he
filled her to the hilt again, and her muscles tightened around him. He could
feel her contractions, knew she was close, knew he need only—
She flung
her arms around his neck, held him with her thighs, and climaxed ecstatically,
hips pumping, breasts crushing into his chest. With no more command than an
adolescent youth, Dunstan lost control and filled her womb with the hot,
intoxicating flood of his seed.
Leila sighed rapturously as Dunstan’s brawny arms lifted her from the
swing and lowered her into the heated waters. Every particle of her being
glowed. She drank deeply of the scent of sex, and it smelled of pleasure. She
wanted to do it again.
“Thank
you,” she murmured, knees still wobbly as she rested against his muscled chest.
“I had no idea . . .”
“Women
seldom do,” he replied, reaching for the soap on the ledge. “If they’d just
stop and think once in a while, half the world’s problems would be solved.”
Well,
obviously the experience hadn’t been as soul-shattering for him as it had been
for her. What was happening inside his dangerous head now?
Warily,
she glanced up at the tic in Dunstan’s jaw, but warm water and scented soap
bubbled around them, and she could sense nothing else beyond his expression.
This man said what he meant without dissimulation.
With
ecstasy, she forgot wariness to admire the wet mat of hair narrowing down his
broad chest to an interesting region disguised by lapping water.
Ignoring
her sigh of delight, he gently lathered the soap into the place he’d bruised
with his lustiness, and she relaxed and let the pleasure return. “Beasts in the
field we are,” she agreed.
She
sensed his sharp look and didn’t care. Let him think she was whoever he wanted
her to be.
“I
behaved as such,” he agreed. “Did I hurt you?”
He had,
but only because it had been so long for her, and she was unused to a man of
his size. She could learn to accommodate him, if he gave her the chance.
Her
growing desire as his fingers caressed her certainly proved her animal nature.
It was a pity they couldn’t do it again. The scent of the soap washed around
them, and she rocked provocatively against his hand. Whatever anyone said,
Dunstan Ives was a gentle man. For all his gruffness, he was treating her with
the tenderness and regard due a newly tried virgin.
Devil
take it, but he still concealed the gentle, funny Dunstan behind the thorny
walls of the joyless, unfeeling one.
Tentatively,
she reached out to him, hoping he would let her—all of her—past his barriers
now. “It’s as if I can only be myself with you,” she murmured, gifting him with
a piece of her she had granted none other.
“Not all
of us have a problem being ourselves.” Abruptly, he lifted her from the water
and set her on the mossy rocks.
The shock
of the cooler air against her heated skin didn’t numb Leila’s desire. “You do,”
she argued, reaching for her petticoat. “You deliberately hide and deny your
true feelings, shutting everyone out. Why can’t you just enjoy what we’ve found
here together?”
Standing
in the water, Dunstan shrugged. “I am simply being rational. Once we start down
this path, it is difficult to stop. It is better for all concerned if one of us
practices restraint.”
“I
thought it was quite the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I have no
desire to stop.” She tugged at the petticoat strings with irritation.
“Aye, and
pleasure is your only thought,” he mocked, climbing out after her. “Some of us
have responsibilities to consider.”
Leila’s
eyes widened at the silhouette he presented in the light of the rising moon. He
was engorged and ready for her again. Her husband had never accomplished
that.
But
Dunstan Ives was in the full vigor of manhood. Not a skinny adolescent nor a
flabby old man, but a firmly muscled male in the prime of life. She gulped when
he turned his back on her, displaying the way those broad muscles worked. She
wanted to make love again, in the full light of day. She hadn’t even begun to
appreciate the power of the male body.
He was
pulling on his breeches. He intended to walk away. Every inch of her that was
female cried out in protest.
But she
wouldn’t give him the gratification of knowing he’d brought her to such a
state. “Why shouldn’t pleasure be the only consideration?” she inquired. “We’re
neither of us married. We hurt no one.”
He tugged
his breeches flap closed and fastened it before turning. Leila thought she
ought to be incinerated by the blast of fury from his eyes, but she was made of
stern mettle and merely waited for his reply.
He
visibly softened at sight of her sitting nude upon the mossy bed, but his tone
remained curt. “You might at least pay heed to the results of such sport.”
The
results? Beyond pleasure? She’d found none. She blinked and tried to gather her
failing wits. It was difficult, with all that lovely naked chest looming over
her. As if he understood her state, he grabbed his shirt and yanked it over his
head.
“Children,”
he explained gruffly when his head emerged from the linen. “Every pleasure has
its price.”
Oh,
children. Leila
curled her lip and would have laughed, but she thought it would injure his Ives
pride. Ives men never denied their reputation as prolific breeders, and gossip
had it that they produced only sons—usually illegitimate ones, from what she
heard.
“I was
married for seven years and never produced a child,” she said, knowing that
most men assumed the woman was at fault in such cases. “And should a miracle
occur, I would not make demands of you. You really think too much, you know.”
She
shouldn’t have added that last, but she couldn’t resist. She swallowed a giggle
at the irritable way he shoved a hand through his hair and glared down at her,
as if he had no idea what to make of her. Men seldom followed her advice, but
at least this one listened. She supposed she ought to dress before he blamed
her for tempting him again.
“I’m not
a fool, madam,” he said, recovering his place in their argument. “I have made
it a point to study human breeding practices as thoroughly as those of sheep.
The risk is high if proper precautions aren’t taken, which we did not, if you
would take time to remember.”
Well,
she’d been warned that Ives were practical men. Pulling her petticoat over her
wet chemise, she reached for her bodice. She heard his sharp intake of breath
at the amount of flesh left revealed, and secretly gloating, she took an
unnecessarily long time fastening the bodice hooks, starting with the bottom
ones so he must watch her breasts until the very last minute. She noticed he
didn’t turn away when she pushed them higher.
She
dearly adored this business of being admired by an angry Ives. To have a man
whose intelligence she respected admire her for other than her display of
wealth gave her a new and welcome sense of power.
Apparently
physical intimacy made it easier to understand him. The thickheaded man saw
Lady Leila in terms of the duplicitous Celia, so he preferred thinking of her
as simple Lily—a woman he could control as easily as he did his horse.
“Nevertheless,”
she said, “I have no need of you or your support, so you may go about your
business with a peaceful mind. I do not charge for the pleasure,” she added
wryly.
Grabbing
her by the arm, Dunstan hauled her to her feet. “Sons need fathers.” The words
came out as almost a curse. “I already have one son I neglect by being here.
I’d rather not have two to feel guilty about. If you do not care about
yourself, care about the child you might breed.”
Leila
rolled her eyes and tugged her gown into place. Ives pride went too far. She
began tying her skirt to her bodice. “Women take care of children. Men don’t.
It’s a fact of life. You’re simply angry because I made you lose your precious
control.”
That
silenced him. Momentarily.
“I’ll see
you home.” Stiffly, he stepped back to retrieve his boots.
The
goddess in heaven,
she railed inwardly, watching him through lowered lashes while she finished
dressing. After today, they couldn’t continue pretending she was two different
people. Or that they meant nothing to each other.
Or
perhaps he could. Men thought of sex as a simple act of survival, like
eating.
Irritated
at the thought of being no more than a receptacle for grunting male appetites,
and exasperated by Dunstan’s denial of who she really was, Leila swung around.
He still had his broad back to her. With a final roll of her eyes, she put both
hands against his back and shoved him into the pool.
“You’re a
churlish bigot, Dunstan Ives! Try seeing beyond your own damned self sometime.”
While he
shouted his protests, she stalked from the cave.
Dripping
from head to toe, Dunstan rode his gelding after the wretched female, following
her to the mansion’s dairy door, where she slipped inside and out of sight
without acknowledging his presence.
Her
disappearance left a gaping hole in the night.
Damnation.
Leaning
against the horse’s neck, Dunstan stared up at the lights of the big house,
watching as kitchen candles and fires died, downstairs lamps were doused, and
new ones appeared in upper-story windows.
She’d
said she could be herself only with him. Who the devil was she, then? The
fair-haired witch who dominated society and ruled this household? Or the
black-haired wench who cavorted in fields and pleaded for the lives of baby
rabbits?
Or both?
A chill
shivered through him that had nothing to do with his damp clothing. What had he
just done?
Watching
a familiar female silhouette glide past an upstairs window, he suffered the
terrible conviction that she was right. He was a bigot. His prejudice against
society had blinded him to the truth. He detested the aristocracy because of
his father’s neglect and the decadence of men like Wickham. He detested
aristocratic women because of Celia’s betrayal and her abominable friends.
He’d
detested Lady Leila for all those reasons and because Malcolms were
uncontrollable and unpredictable.
If the
knowledgeable, courageous lady who had hired him was really the wench who had
taught him the true meaning of pleasure, then he’d denied the truth out of
prejudice.
The
possibility that he could be so blind appalled him. He took pride in being a
man of science—observant, open-minded, and aware of his surroundings.
The
slender figure lighting a candle in the window above taunted him with his
failure. It was past time he opened his eyes and learned the truth, even if the
truth had the power to destroy him.
He turned
his steed toward home. Once there, he hurriedly stripped off his sodden boots
and changed into dry clothes.
Scientific
observation required that all theories be confirmed from as many sources as
were available. Before contemplating further action, Dunstan walked back to the
mansion, stalked up the front steps, and asked for the viscount.
Staines
seemed surprised by his appearance, but eager for companionship. He introduced
Dunstan to the smoky male environs of the towering library and offered a
brandy. “I’m leaving for Bath in the morning. Have you news for me?”
“We’ve
planted the wheat,” he announced, as if he reported to the brat every day.
Staines
grimaced. “I’ll take your word that improvements have been made.”
“Wheat’s
the first course of my system. Next year, we’ll plant turnips. Instead of
selling off the lambs, we’ll be able to keep them through the winter and feed
them with the roots.”
“What’s
the point of keeping the smelly creatures?” The viscount slumped in his seat.
“I’d rather sell them and spend the money.”
Patience was
not one of Dunstan’s virtues, but he held his tongue and tried to remember he
had a son to support and an investigator to pay. And he needed verification
from the stripling before he made an utter ass of himself. “You will earn more
money by producing wool every year,” he explained to the boy. “The object is to
make every investment return more than you put in.”
The
viscount finally looked intrigued. “Turnips don’t cost much, lambs are free,
and wool produces more income than mutton?”
“That’s
the substance of it.” No point in going into the details of labor and expenses
now. He needed to hook the lad’s interest first. He needed the boy’s support
should the lady marry.
The idea
of the lady marrying chilled him to the marrow—surely out of fear of losing the
turnips, he told himself.
“Each
year, I’ll cultivate more fields,” Dunstan continued. “The system feeds itself.
Barring a natural disaster, it will provide a foolproof return on your
investment.”
“Barring
a natural disaster or Leila’s roses,” the boy complained. “I wish you would rid
me of them. My only income comes from the estate.”
That was
the opening he wanted. Relaxing in the sumptuous leather chair, Dunstan
fingered the stem of the brandy glass and worded his question carefully. “Do
you want me to rid you of Lily or the roses?”
“Lily?”
Staines stared at him in disbelief. “She allows you to call her Lily?
Only her sisters do that.”
Dunstan
drained his brandy glass, hoping for numbness as the alcohol burned through to
his empty stomach. A red-hot haze of anger cloaked his brain in confusion. He’d
been duped. He need only check the color of the hair of the woman in the room
above to prove his own stupidity.
Standing
in the open, arched balcony window of her room, Leila watched the last lamp
light flicker out on the floor below. Even the servants were retiring for the
night. She’d heard Dunstan ride away an hour ago.
How
enormous was the risk she had just taken? Did Dunstan finally see her as she
really was? Or did he simply think her an easy wench, free for the asking?
If a man
with the intelligence of Dunstan Ives couldn’t see her as she was, who could?
She longed for the acceptance and understanding even her family couldn’t offer.
She wasn’t just “the black-haired Malcolm” or “ungifted Lily” or the “eligible
Lady Leila.” She was a woman with needs and desires—a woman who yearned to be
held in a man’s arms, to be listened to and respected. Was that so very
impossible?
Or had
she only made the man she wanted monstrously angry? Dunstan wouldn’t walk out
on her and abandon his turnips, would he? Would he continue pretending she was
two people?
Would he
come to her bed?
She was
wide awake and hungering for what she couldn’t have.
She spun
on her slippered heel and paced the spacious room her husband had had decorated
for her. She had just experienced more life in a mossy cave than she’d ever
known between these gilded walls.
She
longed to experience more—craved it.
Perhaps
she could don her peasant clothes and entice Dunstan back to the cave again.
Perhaps
she could slip into his house, tempt him with wine and perfume, and they
wouldn’t go any farther than his bed. She would set candles burning all around
so she could see all of him.
She
almost set out in search of a box of candles before she stopped herself. She
wasn’t thinking. She was behaving like a bitch in heat.
Dunstan
Ives would not lightly take a Malcolm for a mistress. Yet why, by all that was
holy, couldn’t he be like every other man in society and just accept what she
offered without considering the consequences?
How could
she survive without taking his body into hers again? Cupping her breasts
through the silk of her nightdress, she tried to arouse the sensations he had
taught her, but she needed the fiery heat of his breath, the musky smell of his
skin, the brush of his thick hair. She needed him.
“Once
wasn’t enough, my lady?” a masculine voice inquired from the window.
Gasping,
Leila swung around.
Dunstan
sat on her windowsill, arms crossed, booted legs sprawled in front of him.
Bareheaded, with his silky hair drawn back in a dark ribbon, he could have been
a highwayman off the road. But he carried an air of authority and power that no
common thief could ever match.
She
wouldn’t waste her breath asking how he got there. He was an Ives. They were
all in league with the devil. He probably snapped his fingers and flew.
She
refused to fear him, but she hoped to placate him. She needed him too
desperately, in too many ways, not to try.
“Odd, how
prejudice can blind us to the obvious,” she answered, then inwardly winced.
Well, that certainly wouldn’t smooth his ruffled feathers. Where were all her
social skills when she needed them? Turning away, she picked up a brush and
bent to pull it through her hair.
In the
resulting silence, the tension between them rose to an unbearable degree.
When she
looked up again, Dunstan’s broad form filled her full-length mirror. She
admired the quality of the lace on his jabot rather than wonder what he might
do with his hands.
“Your
hair is supposed to be blond like your sisters’ and your cousins’.” Without
permission, he took the brush from her and began plying it to her tangled
curls.
“I am the
only black-haired Malcolm. Anyone in London could have told you that.”
“You
deceived me. Why?” His hands in her hair were gentle. His voice was not.
“It was
not intentional, I assure you. I simply let you think as you pleased.” Leila
closed her eyes and luxuriated in the sensual pull of the brush in her hair.
She could smell him so vividly that she could see him in the cave again, in all
his glory.
“I
suppose I deserved that. I’ll try not to be so blind next time,” he said.
“It’s
about time you opened your eyes to many truths. I’m not any of the things you
think me. Most of all, I’m not Celia. It’s bigotry and prejudice to lump all
women into the same shallow mold.”
“You deny
you manipulated me? Isn’t that what women do best?” Dunstan threw the brush on
her dresser, pulled her hair behind her, and ran his hand beneath the loose
fabric of her neckline. Heat enveloped Leila’s bare breast, desire pooled deep
beneath her belly, and she almost moaned as he caressed her nipple into an
aching peak.
He bent
his head down to her, and she arched her neck to accept his kiss. His mouth
seared hers, spreading liquid heat through her limbs, while her hand
instinctively reached to comb through his hair. The demanding invasion of his
tongue weakened her knees, and hope pounded in her heart. Perhaps he had
forgiven—
He
stepped back, leaving her cold.
She stood
still, praying for his touch, yet fearing his words.
“You’re
an incredibly responsive woman,” he said thoughtfully, watching her in the
mirror. “Any man would pay well for what you offer so freely.”
She
wanted to slap him, but he let a handful of her hair slip through his fingers,
and she stood frozen, fascinated, waiting to see what he would do next. “I’ve
known only one man before you,” she finally said. “Don’t you think I deserve an
opportunity to learn more?”
“Not at
my expense and without my consent. You have no understanding of what you have
done by involving me. I doubt that either of us can afford to act on our
desires.”
He stood
behind her so she couldn’t tell the extent of his arousal, though the passion
between them was too potent to ignore. The scent of him filled her head, and
she could feel him inside her in some primitive manner she couldn’t
define. Not physically, but the person he was: the lonely man, the arrogant
intellect, the commanding presence.
She
stepped backward, but he merely caught her arms in a powerful grip and forced
her to look in the mirror. At them. They were both tall, black-haired
creatures, she thought wildly. She had cultivated the expressionless features
of vapid beauty. His chiseled face was an impenetrable mask by nature.
“I didn’t
hear you saying no earlier.” Her voice shook, and she closed her eyes again so
she didn’t have to see what he was doing to her.
“You hear
me saying no now,” he replied softly. “I cannot afford to dally with Lady Leila
any more than I can afford Lily. What we did tonight was a mistake. You ask too
much of me.”
“You are
being unreason—”
Relentlessly,
his deep voice continued, murmuring against her ear. “I suggest that you decide
which you most want planted, your roses or yourself. Leave me be, Leila.”
He
abruptly stepped away. Stumbling, she struggled to recover her equilibrium, but
Dunstan had already crossed the room to the window.
If she
had a temper, she’d fling everything within reach at the wretched man who was
now lifting his booted foot over the sill.
Instead,
she collapsed onto the carpet, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking
back and forth in an agony of unrequited desire while the wicked wretch
disappeared into the night.
Attempting to wash before dawn the next morning, Dunstan inhaled the
scent of sweet grass, felt his body tighten with longing, and flung the cake of
soap across the room with a force that dented the wainscoting. The witch.
Even the soap raised visions of last night’s ecstasy—an ecstasy he dared not
repeat. Denial was much harder now that he knew what he denied.
He
breathed deeply, attempting to control his towering temper, but the lady had
dug her claws into his soul, and he couldn’t pry her loose.
Damnation,
but she’d tasted of lavender and honey and fitted his rough hands as if she
belonged there. Creamier and more tender than silk, her flesh had branded his
palms so he could feel naught else. A lady. Not a common wench. A Malcolm.
Not a laughing maidservant.
Why him?
She may as well have made a pact with the devil.
He
gripped the rough windowsill and watched a distant curl of smoke rise against
the dawn sky. He hadn’t slept a wink all night. He never should have kissed
her. He was a condemned man.
Well,
that wasn’t anything new.
With that
wry realization, he straightened. The witch might as well have his soul since
he was damned to hell already.
She would
turn him to putty if he let her. He’d already compromised his turnips by
helping her with the gardens when he should have been persuading her to give
them up—or to marry.
Yet he
couldn’t ask her to do either.
His
brothers might jeer at his superstition, but Dunstan fully accepted that
Malcolms were witches. He had his hands in the earth every day and knew that
the powers of nature were far beyond his comprehension. Call the Malcolms
forces of nature instead of witches, perhaps, but he couldn’t command a Malcolm
female any more than he could direct the sun or the rain.
He would
rather trust the devious lady than her addlepated young nephew. At least he and
Leila had similar goals in mind, odd as that might be.
Stomping
down the stairs to the kitchen, Dunstan vowed to avoid women from this day
forth.
Grimacing,
he stirred the banked fire in the stove and pumped water to fill a pot.
“I have a
proposition for you.”
The
female voice emerged from the shadows.
Startled,
Dunstan nearly dropped the kettle. He glanced around for the source of the
voice and discovered Leila’s black-and-white cat curled on the pillow of his
cook’s chair. Even witches couldn’t make cats talk.
A waft of
heavenly roses surrounded him. Leila.
She was
inside his head.
No, he
couldn’t believe that. He was bigger and stronger and in control here. She was
simply a calculating wisp of female.
Cautiously,
he searched the dim corners of the lofty room.
A teacup
rose to the pale ghost of her face against the backdrop of a still-dark
windowpane. Clenching his teeth, Dunstan stepped deeper into the kitchen. He
really needed to start carrying candles with him.
Sitting
on the windowsill, she wore black gloves against the morning chill and a black
velvet cloak that enveloped her in night. Her inky curls spilled down her back,
unbound and unveiled. No longer denying what his senses told him, he fully
recognized the lady as the wench.
“How long
have you been here?” he demanded, finding the teapot still warm. He poured a
splash of tea into a cup and gulped the soothing liquid.
“Long
enough to let the fire dwindle. I don’t sleep much.”
He heard
the shrug in her voice, wanted to believe the lonely vulnerability behind it,
but couldn’t. “I assumed witches slept in the daylight.”
“I’m not
a witch.”
This
time, her sadness penetrated his defenses as surely as her perfume permeated
the air. He tamped down his sympathy, reluctant to let her beneath his skin
again. “Fine, you’re not a witch. You’re a woman. That’s bad enough.”
A wry
laugh escaped her as she extended her cup for a refill. “Being a woman is
terrible, I agree. How would you like being no more than a pet to be cuddled or
cast aside on a whim? Treated as if you hadn’t a thought in your head? It’s a
credit to our gender that we do not all rise up some frosty morn and slit the
throats of the men around us.”
Devil
take it, she was doing it again, crawling inside his mind and making him like
her. The woman was as dangerous as he’d feared. “What do you want?” he asked
curtly, deciding it would be safer to remove her from his kitchen as swiftly as
possible.
“As I
said, I’ve come to offer you a proposition. I do not own my land outright, so I
cannot deed you the acreage you need for your experiments. But if you will work
with me, I can offer you something better.”
Dunstan
froze. He didn’t think he wanted to hear her offer, but he didn’t have much
choice unless he bodily heaved her out. And if he touched her he doubted he’d
have the strength to let her go.
Taking his
silence for permission to continue, Leila did so. “I can offer to clear your
name.”
He
waited. What she offered was so far beyond the realm of possibility that he
figured there must be more to it. Even he didn’t know if he was
innocent. His investigator had sent notes reporting little progress. He saw no
point in telling her he was already doing all that could be done.
Impatient
with his silence, she set down the cup. “If we clear your name, you can take a
position anywhere. You can work with some of the best agricultural experts in
the country, earn a respectable reputation, buy your own land. Isn’t that what
you want?”
More than
life itself, but he wouldn’t admit it. He had pride and an aristocratic name,
and he was supposed to be above caring what the world thought. He refused to
reveal the weakness in him that craved respect and recognition, and the driving
need to make a difference in the world. He knew he could improve living
conditions for farmers, but he wouldn’t beg for the opportunity to do so.
“And what
would I have to do so you would consent to wave your magic wand and create
miracles?” he asked.
“You
needn’t be sarcastic.” She hopped down from the window ledge and paced the
tiled floor, her petticoats rustling. “I need your cooperation with the gardens
and with handling my nephew. I cannot do it alone, and I don’t want you siding
with Staines and his cohorts simply because they’re men and I’m not. I need
your knowledge and experience and the chance to develop new flower strains. All
my life I’ve been denied the opportunity to develop my talents, and I won’t
wait any longer.”
Dunstan
closed his eyes and heard her words echoing his own. He felt her hunger for
knowledge as surely as he felt his. Worse, he understood her unspoken need for
recognition of those talents. The lady wanted what he wanted.
“I can’t
help you,” he said flatly, grinding out any foolish desire to dream. Until he
was sure he hadn’t killed Celia, he had to carry on alone. He had the blood of
one man on his hands. The thought of having Celia’s—it was beyond bearing. Nor
would he risk endangering others.
Developing
new flower varieties would take time he might not have, should proof be found
that he’d caused his wife’s death. In pursuing his investigation, Dunstan was
acutely aware that he might bring about his own doom.
Leila
swung around, and even through the shadows he could see the flare of ire in her
eyes. “Can’t accept my help, or won’t?” she demanded.
“Both.”
He rose and removed the boiling water from the stove, pouring it over the
coffee he’d ground. “You’d fare far better if you went back to London where you
belong.”
“I could
easily hate you,” she whispered. “I despise ignorance and prejudice, and you
are guilty of both if you think me powerless. I can clear your name.”
“Even if
I am guilty?” He didn’t turn to see how she took that idea.
“You’re
not,” she replied. “I’d know if you were.”
If she
only knew how much he needed to believe that . . . He shook his
head in refusal.
“I know
we think differently,” she said with an edge of desperation. “But can we not
respect those differences and join our talents to make us stronger?”
Differences?
They were too blamed alike in some ways, or he’d not hear her loneliness
echoing inside his head. He refused to harm her any more than he already had by
his presence. What were the chances of making an interfering Malcolm understand
that? “Try respecting my wishes and leave me be,” he replied.
Pouring
his coffee, Dunstan felt a fresh rush of air caused by the lady’s angry
departure. He raised his eyebrow at the purring cat she’d left behind. The
feline merely licked its paws.
“I don’t
suppose you were a man before she cast a spell on you?” he inquired aloud,
needing to hear the sound of a voice in the silence she left behind.
The cat
yawned, stretched, and leapt from its perch to the windowsill, turning
expectantly and swishing its tail.
* * *
“Leila—Lily—dear
one, where are you?” a high-pitched soprano sang gaily. “I am here to help.
Tell me all!”
Smiling
at her mother’s airy assumption that she could solve the problems of the world
when she could barely keep her buttons fastened and her scarves about her,
Leila rose from where she was planting seedlings. Hermione fluttered down the
hillside, her hat askew and her skirts billowing. As a child, Leila had firmly
believed her mother could trail dust in a rainstorm.
Now that
her nephew and his companions had departed to chase heiresses in Bath, Leila
felt safe enough to dress for comfort. Shaking out her worn gardening skirt,
she strolled up the hill more sedately than her parent came down it.
She
should have known one of her elders would arrive as soon as Christina and
Felicity returned home. It had been weeks since they’d left—and since she’d
last seen Dunstan anywhere except in the fields.
The
dratted man was avoiding her. She knew he was out there doing his duty, for the
staff of gardeners had multiplied and activity in the fields around her had
increased daily. She feared that if she intervened, he would pack up and she
would never see him again.
Leaving
him alone was proving to be the most difficult thing she’d ever done in her
life. She was accustomed to going after what she wanted, and she wanted Dunstan
Ives. She needed to hear his voice, needed the reassurance of his presence,
needed much more than was good for her.
Her
feelings for him terrified her far more than she could ever admit. How did
people live with these rampaging emotions beating against the walls of their
hearts?
“Maman,
how are you?”
“Harried,
dear girl, absolutely harried!” Her mother hugged her. “I don’t know why one of
you couldn’t have a talent for dressmaking. It’s all so confusing. I’m sure I
don’t know which gowns to choose and the modistes insist we need them all—even
the bilious green one.”
“The
bilious green modiste?” Leila asked with laughter.
Ignoring
her daughter, Hermione glanced at the flower garden. “Very pretty, dear, but
there’s not enough, is there?”
Catching
her mother’s shoulders, Leila steered her toward the house. She loved her
careless, scatterbrained parent. Hermione had a generous heart and a gentle
soul. She simply didn’t have a lot of brains. Or normally functioning ones,
anyway.
“I have
to start somewhere, Maman. How are the girls? I take it they are arguing
over the modiste’s recommendations?”
“Christina
is quite impossible!” Hermione wailed. “She says it’s an extravagant waste of
time and money to clothe her since she’s already betrothed. Instead, she’s been
frequenting gambling hells and coffee shops. I vow, I almost had failure of the
heart when that Ives boy brought her home wearing breeches.”
“I
certainly hope the boy was wearing breeches, Maman.” Leila tried not to
hear what her mother was saying. It could very well be the prelude to a plea
for her to come home, and that she was determined not to do, despite her
homesickness.
“Do not
be difficult, dear. You know what I mean. Christina was wearing breeches, and
the Ives boy had to drag her home where she belonged.”
“Which
Ives boy, Maman? There are so many.”
Hermione
waved a frail hand. “I don’t know. One of the curly-haired ones, the bastards.
Very polite-spoken, I must say. Ninian is having an influence. But that’s not
what I’m here for. Where is that other wretch, the big, fearsome one? I want a
word with him.”
Oh, dear,
she was in for it now. She couldn’t let her mother loose on Dunstan. It was a
pure miracle that the marchioness was so thoroughly distracted by her younger
daughters’ Seasons that she hadn’t noticed Leila’s flush at the mere mention of
Dunstan’s name. Malcolms always sensed sexual involvement, or imagined it
around every corner.
“If you
mean Dunstan, I daresay he’s draining a fen or moving a pond or building a
fence somewhere,” Leila declared. “Shall we have some tea while you tell me
everything that is happening in town?”
“No, no,
I haven’t time, dear.” For a small woman, Hermione was strong—and determined.
She strode directly toward the carriage waiting in the drive. “Take me to him.”
“Maman,
I don’t know where he is,” she protested. “He is a busy man. Come in and visit,
and we can send someone to look for him.”
Hermione
tugged a flying scarf into place and fixed Leila with her sharp blue gaze. “I
know you would not willingly attach scandal to our name and ruin your sisters’
Seasons, but I cannot trust an Ives. If you insist upon associating with a
suspected murderer, I must know he’s truly innocent.”
“Aunt
Stella has a hand in this, does she not?” Leila asked with resignation. Her
duchess aunt had a way of knowing about matters in which she had no right to
interfere. There would be no arguing with her mother once Aunt Stella became
involved.
Leila
glanced down at her dirty blue skirt and couldn’t help imagining Dunstan’s
expression when she showed up dressed like this with her mother in tow. She
rather thought her flighty mother terrified logical Ives men as much as the
reverse.
Hermione
clambered into the carriage with the aid of her footman and waited for Leila to
enter before answering. “We’re concerned, dear, that’s all. The girls stopped
to visit Ninian, and you know how that is.”
Leila
did. Ninian mothered everyone, even though she was younger than half her
cousins. Leila might resent everything about her angelic married cousin, except
it would be like resenting the sun or the moon. They merely beamed down anyway.
“Maman,
I don’t suppose I could talk you out of this, could I? I’ve already offered
Dunstan Ives our help in clearing his name and he’s refused it.”
Hermione
rapped on the driver’s door, and the carriage lurched down the drive. “I don’t
doubt he did, but you can never know what an Ives is thinking. They’re
positively inscrutable.”
Dunstan
was not. He was as obvious as a blizzard on a sunny day. He wanted her, and he
hated her for it. Simple. In a billow of skirts and petticoats, Leila flopped
down on the seat cushion. “We could ask his maidservant if she knows where he
has gone, I suppose.”
“That’s
what I thought,” Hermione replied, tugging at an unfastened glove loop.
Leila
rolled her eyes as her mother’s ancient carriage rumbled down the drive.
Dunstan
had warned her to stay away, but he hadn’t said anything about her
mother.
Riding behind a tenant who was returning the oxen to their field, Dunstan
noticed a movement on the rocky hillside harboring Leila’s cave. His heart
lurched and his palms perspired in expectation until he urged his mount past
the animals and realized the activity on the hill in no way involved Leila.
He cursed
his foolish disappointment even as he identified the climber as a young lad.
When another figure pushed up from a prone position near the cave vent,
Dunstan’s disappointment turned to rage. If some wretch had discovered Leila’s
bathing place and spied on her—
Slamming
that thought to a halt, he pondered the idiocy of caring, and scarcely heeded
the man who stood on the crest of the hill—until he realized that the Herculean
figure silhouetted against the sky was watching him. Adonis. Or whatever
in hell his name was.
Adonis
had first appeared out of nowhere at the marriage of Drogo and Ninian. He’d
been appearing and disappearing ever since. He was more Ives than any Ives—with
a more prominent nose, a browner complexion, and thicker, blacker hair than any
of them. But he hung on no known branch of the family tree.
Unable to
ignore the Ives talent for breeding sons—in and out of wedlock—the family had
accepted Adonis’s appearances with wariness and his departures with relief.
Adonis never seemed to care one way or another.
A
youthful shout from the side of the hill returned Dunstan’s attention to the
forgotten climber, and his heart nearly stopped beating. His son, Griffith,
hung on a rocky shelf, attempting to pull himself over. What the devil
was he about? He would kill the boy, if the boy did not kill himself first.
With a
lazy stride, the big man on top of the hill sauntered down a path nearest the
lad, leaned over, and apparently spoke a few words of encouragement. Heart in
mouth, letting the oxen driver go on without him, Dunstan halted his horse at
the foot of the rocks to watch his one and only son clinging to his precarious
perch. He didn’t dare shout at him from down here. One quick move, and the boy
could plunge to the rocks below. It wasn’t a long fall, just a cruel one.
Images of his son’s broken, crumpled body obliterated all other thought.
Grasping
the last shred of his control, Dunstan dismounted just as Griffith found a
handhold and began hauling himself upward. Dunstan gulped a lungful of air, and
swore that if he didn’t keel over in terror first, he would heave the pair off
the top when he reached them. Why, by all the planets, had the boy’s mother let
him loose in the company of the lunatic Adonis?
With
careless disregard to his coat and stockings, Dunstan took the shortest route
to the top, pulling himself up by tree trunks and through brambles. By the time
he reached the crest, Griffith lay gasping for breath in the grass while Adonis
looked on with amusement.
“Well
met, my friend,” he called. “I believe this one belongs to you.”
Griffith
shot up like a jack-in-the-box. Still gangly and loose-limbed at fourteen, his
ragged dark hair falling across his bronzed brow, he scowled at Dunstan with an
easily recognizable Ives expression. The boy had been sullen earlier this
spring when Dunstan had left him behind with his mother. He had apparently
graduated from sullen to rebellious in a few short months.
“Does
your mother know where you are?” Dunstan all but shouted. He never knew what to
say to his son. He and Bessie lived in different worlds, and he’d long ago come
to accept that a child belonged with his mother. Yet he wasn’t so certain how
much longer Griffith could be called a child.
The boy
crossed his arms and glared. Dunstan raised a questioning eyebrow to the man
who looked on—the man who always looked on, observing and never participating.
“I found
him tramping the road to London.” Adonis answered the unspoken inquiry with a
shrug of his wide shoulders. “Thought maybe you’d want him more than the rogues
he accompanied needed him.”
“They
were my friends,” the boy muttered. “I was fine. You didn’t have to interfere.”
The big
man gently cuffed the back of the boy’s head. “They were rogues who could have
sold you to the press gangs or employed you as a thief, among other things.”
Trying
not to let his terror of what might have happened explode into rage, Dunstan
focused on the one argument that was capable of making an immediate impression
on his rebellious child. “Or they could have been rogues who would terrify me
and your mother by holding you for ransom,” he added. He knew his son was
devoted to his mother.
“What
would you care?” Griffith retorted, though he had the grace to look
guilty.
“You’re
my son. What do you think?”
The boy
narrowed his eyes. “I think you wish I’d disappear, that I’d never been born.
That’s what I think.”
Dunstan
crossed his arms and glared back. “I think you wish I’d disappear and
never been born, and then you wouldn’t have to deal with anyone but your
mother.”
“That’s
stupid,” the boy retaliated. “If you hadn’t been born, then I wouldn’t be here
either. Everyone knows that.”
Dunstan
lifted his gaze to Adonis, who was grinning openly. “See, he’s an Ives. Not
stupid, just pig-headed.”
“So I’ve
been told, though I’ve yet to discern the difference.” Adonis nodded at a
carriage rumbling down the road below. “Why is it that whenever a tempest
brews, a Malcolm appears?”
“I might
ask that of you,” Dunstan replied grimly, glancing in the direction indicated
but not recognizing the vehicle. How could Adonis know who was in it?
Ignoring
the jibe, Adonis chortled and tugged the boy’s collar. “If the Malcolms get you
in their clutches, you’ll be fortunate if you aren’t transported home on a
broom.”
Griffith
looked as if that possibility would be far preferable to reaping his father’s
wrath. He glanced toward the road with interest.
“I’ll
leave the two of you to the ladies.” In threadbare shirtsleeves, his coat flung
over his shoulder, Adonis eased toward the far side of the hill. “I’ll catch up
with you later.”
“Wait!”
Dunstan called after him. He despised being in debt to any man, and he owed
this one a far greater debt than he could ever repay. To lose his son would
have killed him—a sudden insight that hit him with the impact of a runaway
carriage. “I owe you. Come to the house, and we’ll talk.”
Adonis
eyed him skeptically. “There’s naught we can say to each other.”
Dunstan
grasped his son’s shoulders with both hands and let a tide of gratitude relieve
him of the hostility and suspicion he’d harbored for the interfering stranger.
“He’s all I have,” Dunstan said simply, squeezing Griffith’s shoulders and
telling himself it was the sun causing the moisture in his eyes now that he had
the boy in his hands again. “Come for dinner.”
Adonis
glanced at the approaching carriage, then back to the wide-eyed boy who was
soaking up the exchange. “Later, then.”
Although
he strolled away as if he had all the time in the world, he was well out of
sight before the carriage reached the foot of the hill.
“He’s
peculiar,” Griffith muttered.
“You’re
in a cauldron of trouble,” Dunstan retorted, releasing him.
Dunstan
had been only seventeen when he’d fathered the lad, eighteen the day Griffith
was born. He’d held him as a babe once or twice when he’d been home from
school, watched him grow from a distance, but Celia’s death had separated them
as surely as his marriage had. He abhored the thought of hurting his child, yet
he didn’t seem capable of doing anything else.
The role
of father did not come naturally to him. Dunstan’s own father had barely
acknowledged his existence, so he had no good example to follow.
If, as
Leila had accused him, he’d been blinded to her nature by his prejudice against
society, was it possible that his feelings of resentment toward his father had
spilled over into his relationship with Griffith? Just how narrow-minded had he
been all these years?
And how
the hell could he fix it?
With
younger brothers aplenty, he knew how to play the role of older sibling.
Perhaps that would suffice for now. “Come along. I imagine you’re a mite
peckish after that climb. What were you trying to do?”
“Adonis
said this is a faerie hill, and I was trying to find a way in.” Griffith
scrambled down the path. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a cow.”
Dunstan
lingered a moment longer, watching the ancient carriage rattle and jolt below,
and wondered again—how the devil had Adonis known who was in it?
Leila
stepped from the coach and eyed the bleak stone front of Dunstan’s cottage.
“He’s not here,” she told her mother as the footman assisted her down.
“How do
you know that, dear?” Hermione asked placidly, catching her floating scarf and
knotting it over her bodice. With a vague gesture, she sent the footman to
knock.
Leila
always knew when Dunstan was near, but she didn’t try to explain that to her
mother.
She
removed her lace cap from her pocket and tied it in a demure bow beneath her
ear so she did not look quite so disheveled in her dusty gardening clothes. She
watched Dunstan’s maid appear in the doorway, then throw them a glance over the
footman’s shoulder, and shake her head.
The
footman returned with the message that the master was with the men in the south
field and was not expected back until dinner.
“Perhaps
we could go to the south field,” Hermione suggested.
Catching
the scent of new-mown grass carried by a sudden breeze, Leila shook her curls.
“He’s on his way, Maman. Let’s go in and have some tea.” She strolled up
the stone walk. “My mother has traveled a distance,” she said to the maid still
standing in the entrance. “Might we rest and have some refreshment?”
Minutes
later, they were comfortably ensconced in Dunstan’s front parlor when the front
door sprang open and a dirty young man flew across the threshold, followed by
Dunstan in a rumpled and dusty frock coat.
Leila hid
a smile at her host’s disheveled state. She shouldn’t have worried that she
wasn’t elegant enough for him.
From
beneath lowered lashes, she watched Dunstan’s surprise and what she hoped was a
brief flash of appreciation at her appearance. Then he concealed his expression
and collared the lad to perform the necessary courtesies. His son! She’d known
Ives boasted of bastards, knew of Dunstan’s illegitimate brothers, she’d just
never thought to come face-to-face with his son, especially one nearly full
grown.
The boy
grimaced and looked longingly toward the kitchen. The dark coloring, large
bones, and stubborn jaw proclaimed him Ives well enough, but his nose lacked
the usual prominence. Leila knew nothing of boys and could not ease the awkward
silence that fell after introductions were completed.
“Martha
will feed you. Don’t go any farther than the kitchen until I come for you.” Dunstan
sent the boy away and glanced down at his own dirty attire. “I apologize,
ladies. I did not expect company. Will you give me a moment?”
“We
shouldn’t have come, Maman,” Leila whispered as Dunstan disappeared
upstairs.
“Nonsense.”
Hermione bit delicately into a watercress sandwich and glanced about her.
“After years of raising girls, I find these Ives men fascinating. Even the
young ones are exceedingly . . . masculine.”
Grumpily,
Leila snapped a ginger biscuit and savored the flavor. “You have two full-grown
stepsons, Mama. And Father isn’t exactly lacking in masculinity.”
Hermione
tut-tutted and sipped her tea. “You know perfectly well that they have their
lives, and we have ours. It is all very polite and not at all the hurly-burly
of Ninian’s household, where men are underfoot at all hours. The poor dear.
With her sensibilities I cannot imagine how she suffers the chaos of all those
big men hurling passions about as if they were javelins.”
Sometimes,
her ladylike, gentle mother was entirely too perceptive. Contemplating Dunstan
and hurling javelins, Leila did not dare reply.
“Martha,
I thought I told you to get rid of this soap.” An irritable male voice floated
down the stairs and through the partially closed parlor doors. “I’ll not go
about smelling of perfume!”
Leila
lifted her gaze to watch a spider spinning a web in a corner of the ceiling.
Martha’s
murmured reply could not be discerned, but a deep growl carried easily. “Then
who put the blamed thing in here? I threw it out this morning.”
Hermione
raised her eyebrows over the brim of her teacup. “You’re making soap on your
own now, are you, dear?”
“I must
practice on something.” Leila wanted to get up and walk out, but that would
only raise her mother’s foolish suspicions. The marchioness dearly wanted to
believe her eldest daughter had inherited her gifts, but Leila had never made a
person happy or content or even moderately satisfied with her fragrances, as
her mother did. Although, if Dunstan’s shouts were any indication, she’d
certainly succeeded in eliciting his anger.
“Practicing
on an Ives is a trifle untraditional, is it not?” Hermione suggested softly as
heavy footsteps clattered down the stairs. “I did warn you about them, did I
not?”
Thankfully,
Dunstan burst in before Hermione could voice her disapproval of what must be
written all over Leila’s face. Her family meant well, but they interfered at
the most embarrassing moments. She sipped her tea to hide her flush.
“I
apologize for making you wait, my ladies. How may I help you?”
Dunstan
had smoothed back his thick dark hair, secured it with a ribbon, and donned a
frayed frock coat of midnight blue trimmed in the barest hint of silver to
match his gray vest. Leila liked that he’d dressed for her, but he could just
as well have worn rags. She saw the man inside the clothes, and she quivered at
the hungry look he bestowed on her. Physical awareness heated the small parlor
far better than any fire.
Hermione
cast a disapproving look at Leila and shook her head—whether in dismay or
acceptance of the inevitable Leila couldn’t tell.
“It’s how
we may help you that counts,” she murmured, setting down her cup. With her
clear, unwrinkled skin, the marchioness looked as wide-eyed and innocent as a
newborn babe. “Do sit, dear, and have a sip of tea. Did you know Ninian
sometimes speaks with ghosts?”
Leila bit
back a grin as Dunstan all but rolled his eyes and gingerly perched on a chair,
clearly unaware that her mother had discerned the tension between them and
already reached a conclusion.
“And my
brother sees stars that are not there,” he added, humoring an old lady while
taking the cup Leila offered. “We all have our eccentricities.”
“Be that
as it may,” Hermione continued, “we are here to help. My daughters tell me your
name has been wrongfully maligned, and we must correct that.”
Dunstan’s
expression reflected his impatience. “I trust you did not travel all this way
on a fool’s errand, my lady. I have told your daughter I have no interest in
what other people think.”
Hermione’s
limpid blue gaze regarded him sorrowfully. “And do you take no thought to
others who might be affected? Would you have your son grow up to believe
notoriety is acceptable? Would you never visit with your brothers or nephew for
fear of tainting them with the gossip? And your mother—your dear, sainted
mother! How could you let her suffer beneath this dark cloud?”
“Maman!” Leila thought Dunstan might explode
if her mother did not cease at once. He gave off a heat so strong that she
could feel it welling up, threatening to blast them. The sensation of being
drawn into those emotions both frightened and excited her. “Maman, you
go too far.”
“My lady
is all that is kind,” he said coldly. “But the matter is not easily resolved
and is none of her concern. I regret that I’ve caused anyone to believe
otherwise.”
“Oh,
don’t be so damned polite, Dunstan.” Tired of the posturing and frustration,
Leila slammed down her teacup and surged to her feet. “You’ve already made it
plain that you don’t care a wink about others, so pardon us if we don’t care
what you think. Come along, Maman. Let the man burn in a hell of his own
making.”
He stood
when they rose, but she knew he was as furious as he’d been the night he’d
invaded her bedchamber.
Good.
Maybe he would try it again. This time, she’d be ready for him.
“Have a way with the ladies, do you?”
Still
steaming from the encounter with Leila, Dunstan resisted the urge to plow his
fist into a jaw that was too much like his own. Adonis sat sprawled on a settee
before the kitchen fire, looking very much at home while working a metal puzzle
between his nimble fingers.
“I was
polite,” Dunstan retorted. Noting the remains of bread and cheese on his son’s
plate, Dunstan dug in the pantry for the same, despite Martha’s complaint that
dinner would be ready soon enough.
“They’re
right, you know.” Apparently not the least bit embarrassed to reveal he’d been
eavesdropping, Adonis stretched his shabby boots across the floor. “You hurt
your family by not clearing your name.”
Dunstan
shot him a warning look and jerked his head toward his son. “There’s a time and
place for everything.”
“Tell
your father why you ran away.” Adonis lifted his lengthy frame from the bench
and dropped the tangled wire puzzle on the table in front of Griffith. The
tangle instantly separated into three unbroken hoops. After setting a fresh
loaf of bread on the table, Martha glanced over Griffith’s shoulder with
interest, then returned to her cooking.
“How did
you do that?” In awe, the boy poked at the pieces.
Gritting
his teeth, not wanting to have this conversation, Dunstan dropped down on the
bench across from his son. Grabbing the hoops, he snapped them into a tangle
again. “Why did you run away?” he asked Griffth, repeating his guest’s
question.
Griffith
wriggled uncomfortably. “Just ’cause.”
“You will
haul all the water for this house for a week as punishment for worrying your
mother.” Dunstan chewed a chunk of bread and cheese while he planned his words.
“She must be frantic. We’ll have to send a messenger immediately to let her
know where you are.”
“I’m
staying?” Griffith eyed his father warily.
“That
depends. Will you write your apologies to your mother?” Dunstan demanded,
knowing how Bessie doted on the boy.
Griffith
grimaced and returned to playing with the puzzle. “I left her a note.” At
Dunstan’s silence, he shrugged but didn’t look up. “I’ll apologize.”
“Then you
may stay. But you must still carry water for a week.”
“All
the water?” the boy objected. “Do we have to take baths?”
“One
every night if you do not tell me what made you run away.”
Griffith
sighed, rolled his eyes, fiddled with the puzzle, and finally muttered, “The
other boys made fun of me.”
“That’s
what boys do. You must taunt them back.” Outwardly unsympathetic, Dunstan
sliced more cheese, but inside, his gut twisted. Children were cruel. The
tormentors of his youth had given up when he’d grown larger than they. Griffith
was large for his age, too, so his foes probably weren’t just the boys in his
school.
“Ma said
to ignore them.” Griffith stuffed a huge piece of bread in his mouth and chewed
angrily.
Adonis
snorted from his corner. “Your mother obviously isn’t a Malcolm.”
“Shut up,
or I’ll label you a Malcolm,” Dunstan said without ire. His gaze didn’t
waver from his son. “Fighting someone your size might quiet one or two bullies,
but there’s always one more. I trust you’re not ashamed of your birth? Your
mother explained why we could not marry?”
Griffith
scowled. “I’m not a simpleton. Earls’ sons don’t marry maids. Ma says I should
hold my head up and be proud that you acknowledge me, because many wouldn’t.”
But
better men than he would have brought the boy into their home and schooled him
to a better life. He’d still been a boy in school himself when Griffith was
young, and he’d had no house to bring him to. Later, after he’d left school and
married, Celia had had hysterics when he suggested it. Life never offered
simple choices.
“We were
too young to marry,” Dunstan corrected the boy’s assessment, softening some of
the stark reality. “Your mother is a fine woman or I’d never have left you with
her. So what is it you are fighting about?”
Even as
he asked the question, he suspected he knew the answer. The argument with Leila
had already warned him.
He’d
thought that by removing himself from his family’s village, people would forget
the tragedy of Celia’s death and life would go on.
He
realized now that he’d been licking his wounds instead of thinking.
“They say
you murdered your wife,” Griffith muttered at the table. “And I called them
filthy liars.”
Dunstan
knew the boy wanted to hear that his father was not a murderer. He wished he
could offer that reassurance. To his shame and humiliation, he could not. He
didn’t believe himself capable of so heinous a crime, but he had no proof that
he didn’t murder Celia, and plenty to show that he might have. “Martha, would
you excuse us for a minute?”
“I’ll be
setting the table. Don’t you be filling up on bread!”
In the
silence that followed the old woman’s departure, Dunstan placed his broad hand
over his son’s slender one, absorbing the warmth and life vibrating there. He
couldn’t lie, but he couldn’t hurt the boy either.
“If I did
not kill Celia when she took a lover, do you think I’d kill her after she’d
been out of my life for over a year?”
The boy
shook his shaggy head. “I called them all rotten liars,” he repeated
vehemently, “but even the women whisper, and I cannot shut them up.”
“The
Malcolms have the right of it,” Adonis said from his bench. “You must clear
your name, not hide here. You’re an earl’s son. Make society work for you; use
what fate has given you for the good of all.”
Dunstan
shot him a hostile glare. “If I had any chance of proving who killed Celia,
don’t you think I would use it?” Stubbornly, he resisted telling Adonis that he
saved every penny he earned to pay someone to do what he could not.
“Malcolms
see and hear things no one else can. Have you asked for their help?” Adonis
asked.
“We are
talking about women who talk to trees and let birds loose in churches,” Dunstan
protested.
“It’s
daunting to deal with the inexplicable,” Adonis acknowledged, working another
tangled wire puzzle he’d produced from somewhere about his person. “Celia lived
in London. Malcolms live in London. They have more opportunity than you to
investigate.”
“Let them
meddle on their own. I don’t fit in their gilded parlors. I’m a farmer.”
“You’re
an earl’s son,” Griffith protested.
“I’m an
earl’s son who’s more comfortable with a herd of sheep than with those bewigged
buffoons in London,” Dunstan insisted. “At least I can take a stick to a sheep’s
hindquarters and poke it out of my way.”
“With all
that wool on their heads and in their eyes, the London gentlemen resemble
sheep. Carry a stout stick and treat them accordingly,” Adonis advised.
Dunstan
swallowed a smile at the image. “I don’t think Malcolms would appreciate my
poking the ladies.”
Accompanied
by their guest’s shout of laughter, Martha returned to hear this last. “Sir, I
cannot think that’s a thing to be saying in front of the lad.”
The lad
was grinning hugely. Relieved to see the boy could smile, Dunstan rose and
hugged his cook’s shoulders. “How say you, madam? Can a sheepherder shear the
wooly sheep of London?”
“Only if
he learns to dance, sir,” the old woman said with a smile. “I hear the sheep of
London are most fond of dancing.”
Adonis
unfolded his long frame from the settee and performed an elaborate bow before
Martha. “My lady sheep, might I pull the wool over your eyes?”
His son’s
giggles inspired Dunstan to fall in with the insanity. Lifting his cook’s hand
in the first stand of the minuet, Dunstan made a courtly bow, caught her stout
waist, and spun her around.
Griffith
howled, and Adonis caught the flustered cook to promenade her down the kitchen
floor, singing, “To London we will go, to London we will go, heigh-ho, the
merry-o, to London we will go!”
Joining
in his son’s laughter, Dunstan knew he should be protesting loudly that they
would not be going to London soon, but he hadn’t laughed in so long, his jaws
ached from disuse. It felt as if a thundercloud had temporarily lifted from his
shoulders, and he didn’t wish to hasten its return.
He’d
forgotten how much he enjoyed the camaraderie of his brothers. He’d spent too
damn much of his life alone.
If only
he could clear his name, he could have his family back again.
But he’d
promised Leila his aid here, and he wasn’t a man who broke promises.
“It’s all
very well to laugh and dance and dream, but I can’t go to London immediately,”
Dunstan told Adonis the next day, watching an approaching storm drive leaves
into the hedgerows outside his doorstep. “Unlike you, I have a son to support
and responsibilities to live up to. I must make arrangements.”
Adonis
shrugged. “Then make them quickly or your noble brother’s wife will wander off
in the company of her fair-haired cousins to investigate what you have not.”
“I’ll
talk to Lady Leila.” Frowning and swatting his boot with his crop, Dunstan
watched the clouds building on the horizon. “Perhaps she can call off Ninian
and the others until I have time to get there.”
Talk
to Lady Leila. As
if the two of them could exchange sensible words without setting off small
explosions in the atmosphere. Her appearance here with her mother, looking like
Lily and behaving as Leila, had completely unsettled him. He was having
difficulty accepting that a lady could be as approachable as the wench in the
field.
Laughter
rumbled from Adonis’s deep chest. “If you believe a stern word from you will
call off the ladies, you know nothing of Malcolms. I can’t decide whether I’m
more amazed that Ives and Malcolms have survived all these years without each
other, or that you haven’t killed each other already. I wish you well.”
The big
man strode off into the gloom without a word of farewell. One of his boot soles
flapped as he walked, and Dunstan made a mental note to write Drogo and have
boots made for the braying jackass. He didn’t know how they would deliver the
boots, since Adonis disappeared and reappeared at will, but he owed the man.
He owed
the man far more than a pair of boots.
He turned
and caught Griffith standing warily behind him, watching Adonis depart. “You
know you need to finish school,” Dunstan said.
With his
hair slicked off his face and wearing one of Dunstan’s old coats, the lad
looked more man than child, until he grimaced. “I’ve learned all they can teach
me.”
He’d
learned all the village school could teach him because his father hadn’t sent
him off for a better education. Another faulty decision, Dunstan supposed, and
one not easily corrected now. He didn’t have the funds to send his son away to
school, but he knew an idle mind didn’t benefit the boy. Perhaps if he called
off his investigator and went to London on his own, he could use those funds
for Griffith’s schooling. But what would he do with Griffith while he was off
to London?
“We’ll
speak of school later.” Deciding he had time to ponder the matter, he sought
some means of communicating with his son now that Adonis had left them alone in
each other’s company. “In the meantime, you can help me work the field. I
assume your mother hasn’t mollycoddled you into believing you’re too good for
hoeing.”
Had
Griffith meant to protest the assignment, he shut up about it after the implied
insult. Dunstan had learned one or two things by dealing with his younger
brothers. “I’ve been writing a pamphlet on turnip production. It’s on my desk.
Go over that for me, reading it for information, then editing for errors and
clarification. When you’re done, I’ll show you what needs doing outside.”
The boy
nodded. “You’re not sending me away?”
“You’re
my son,” Dunstan affirmed, understanding the source of the boy’s continuing
uncertainty, “and I’ll do what I can to be a father. Don’t expect a great deal
of me. I believe I saw my own father once a year at best, so I have no example
to draw on.”
The boy’s
stiff stance relaxed, though the wariness didn’t leave his eyes.
Had he
done this to his son? Dunstan wondered. Shut him out as he’d shut out all
society? If so, Leila had been right to call him narrow-minded. What else had
he turned his back on while immersing himself in work?
Guilt
from the deaths of Celia and her lover was burden enough to bow his shoulders.
Repeating his father’s mistakes with Griffith would guarantee him a place in
hell. But he knew nothing about how to correct the situation.
He’d have
to learn.
Satisfied
that his son was adequately occupied for the moment, Dunstan strode out the
door. He had an insane urge to discuss his lack of assurance about fatherhood
with Leila. He needed a perspective he didn’t possess. He wasn’t a mathematical
genius like Drogo or an inventor like their younger brother, Ewen. He lacked
the ability to analyze anything except what grew in the field. Leila was the
one who understood people.
But how
could he tell Leila he had to go to London?
Upon the heels of Hermione’s departure, Staines returned from Bath with a
party of his friends. The lot of them galloped and halloed up the drive,
pulling their mounts up short until they reared in protest, laughing when one
of the more drunken riders fell backward into the hedges.
Boys!
Leila swung from the window in a swirl of skirts. Staines was barely nineteen.
She shouldn’t expect him to behave with the dignity of his late uncle. But
’twas a pity he didn’t find more reserved company.
She’d
thought that giving her nephew the freedom of the estate would ease some of his
resentment of her and teach him responsibility, but she could see the boy was
not so easily appeased.
He might
grow into his position in a few years, but she didn’t have the patience to
endure even a few days of these surprise parties. He had no right bringing a
horde of men here without her permission.
Loneliness
and frustration assailed her, and she retreated to the converted dairy for
solace. Perhaps she ought to give up and return to London, where she knew and understood
the rules and could break them with impunity. She knew nothing of growing
things, after all. It had been boredom and arrogance to think she could develop
new strains of flowers.
If she
couldn’t create fragrances, she had no reason for existing.
Leila
slammed a beaker down on her laboratory table and reached for a vial, doing her
best to divert her morose thoughts. She wanted a distillery of her own. Her
talents were limited by using the distillations of others. Men who knew nothing
of the correct phases of the moon for picking petals diluted the strength and
power of the blossoms.
She
wrinkled her nose at the scent rising from the open vial. The grower who had
produced this oil had mixed his roses. It wasn’t pure. It reminded her of that
pest Lord John, whom she’d seen arriving with the rest of Staines’s friends.
A tight
smile formed as she grabbed an infusion of lilac to blend with the rose oil.
Scanning the shelves, she found a tincture of myrrh, and with even more wicked
humor, a decoction of camphor. They all reminded her of Lord John, and each
scent had a purpose. Lilac for memory, myrrh for purification, camphor for
psychic strength. Lord John was about to have his very own perfume.
If he and
her nephew hoped to steal her land and her future, they sorely underestimated
the will of a Malcolm.
“Leila, I
have brought you company!”
Staines’s
shouts echoed the length of the tiled corridor from house to dairy, but Leila
didn’t bother removing her apron or checking her cap for escaped curls. For the
sake of respectability, while in the house, she wore her wild nest of hair
pinned close to her head, but she had no wish to encourage her nephew’s
illusions by pretending she cared about suitors.
Outside,
a cloud obliterated the sunshine, perfectly reflecting her mood.
When her
nephew entered the dairy with Lord John, Leila was doubly glad she hadn’t
bothered with her appearance. Narrowing her eyes, she glared at the pair of
them. “You could have given me some warning that you were bringing guests,
Staines. It’s extremely rude to burden the servants without preparation.”
“Build a
dower house if you don’t like it,” he answered with the petulance of a
schoolboy. “I thought you’d be glad to have company. How you can endure no
society but that of sheepherders is beyond me.”
“Sheepherders
are polite,” she answered shortly, adding the contents of her mortar to the
beaker of scent.
“Don’t
blame Staines for my eagerness,” Lord John intervened. “I could not wait longer
to see you again.”
Leila
clenched her teeth. They both must be drunk to irritate her this way. “Staines,
you might at least consider my wishes in your choice of company.”
“You
might at least consider that this is my house and I don’t wish to be told what
to do!” he shouted. “Come along, John, we needn’t stay here to be insulted.”
The boy
slammed out through the low dairy door, into the rising wind. His lordship
didn’t follow.
“Your
servant’s garments become you,” he murmured from much too close.
“And I
thought you were interested only in my wealth,” she answered coldly.
“Who told
you that?”
“What
does it matter who told me, if it’s true?”
Rubbing
her nose in irritation, Leila decided he smelled of rotting wood and fungus.
Perhaps she ought to add dried toadstools to the perfume she was creating for
him, to complement his natural scent. Her skin crawled as he hovered closer.
She’d never been quite so aware of his shallow character before.
As she
opened a box of the toadstools, a wave of dizziness caught her by surprise.
Swaying, she closed her eyes to halt the gyrating of her surroundings and
grabbed her workbench for support.
Before
the swaying steadied, a wavy vision formed behind her eyelids. She sensed a
dank woodland, still dripping with rain and smelling of rotting timber and
toadstools, but the image forming against that background held her spellbound
with dread. A heavily pregnant young woman garbed in the rags of an ill-used
serving maid knelt on the forest floor, weeping.
Over her
stood a cold young man—Lord John. As the maid wept her heart out, holding her
burdensome belly, the young man tossed her a few coins and walked away.
“I’m not
some gazetted fortune hunter,” Lord John shouted in the real world.
In the
world behind her eyelids, the maid’s anguished cries rose above the shout.
Nauseous,
Leila swallowed hard and willed the painful scene away, but the image in the
vision and the man in the room with her blended into one. Clinging to her
workbench, she still heard the woman crying even as the scene faded and Lord
John’s voice intruded.
“Rich or
poor, I treat all women with the respect they deserve.”
Thunder
rolled outside as Leila opened her eyes to see her suitor’s open, handsome
face. Lord John’s blond good looks might normally have diverted this
conversation, but the odd vision caused her nerves to crawl. What was wrong
with her? Had she just seen this young fool with another woman? That wasn’t
possible. Perhaps the toadstools were infected with some noxious element. She’d
heard of such. But what had she seen?
Shaken by
what she’d experienced, Leila felt a scrap of the impending storm take root
within her. Inexperienced at handling tempests in any form, she let the storm’s
tension speak for her. “And what respect is that? The same respect with which
you treat maids foolish enough to get caught with your child?”
Shocked,
Lord John grabbed her wrist. “Who told you that?” His abrupt jerk on her arm
shook the beaker she held, splashing several drops of liquid across his silk
coat.
Lightning
struck in the distance, thunder crackled, and the musty aroma of a forest after
a storm permeated the air. His lordship shrieked, pulling his arm back as if
he’d been burned.
“You
witch! You’ve ruined my coat. Have you no idea what it costs to keep up
appearances?”
Stunned
by his sudden transformation from charming gentleman to ranting madman, Leila
could only stare. The appalling fragrance so matched the scent she associated
with Lord John that he did not seem as aware of it as he was of the spots on
his silk coat.
“Appearances
require a great deal of acting, do they not?” she taunted. Speaking her
thoughts was so freeing, she gleefully sought another insult. “Does Staines
know you and your sister would most likely starve if you couldn’t live off his
largesse?”
“What do
you know about surviving on a meager allowance?” he shouted, then looked
startled to realize he’d said such a thing.
“I’d know
better than to gamble away my only income,” she retorted. “And counting on
appearances to win you wealth is as much a form of gambling as playing cards.”
Lord John
paled as her suspicion apparently hit a nerve. “You bitch! Had you accepted me
as your husband, I would have taught you better manners.”
Without
further warning, Lord John swung his aromatic arm across her worktable,
smashing the contents to the tiled floor. Glass shattered and vials spilled
until the air reeked of conflicting odors. With a triumphant smirk, he met her
gaze. “Do not underestimate my influence on your nephew, my dear. One way or
another, I will be master here. You’d best learn proper deference.”
Outside,
the wind howled, shivering the roof timbers.
Inside,
the tempest railing at Leila’s restraint finally exploded. Grabbing a broom,
she swung with all her might at Lord John’s frock-coated shoulders, connecting
soundly. “Out, you wicked toad of a man!” she screamed. “Out, and don’t come
back! I curse the day you were born and every day that you live hereafter. Out,
heathen, before you defile this place once more.”
Dodging
the painful whacks of her broom, Lord John ran before her tirade, covering his
head with his hands to protect it from her blows. “You’ll regret this,” he
called, but the rest of his incoherent curses were drowned as he dashed
outside, into the sudden downpour.
Standing
in the doorway, watching the villain escape into the fog of the storm, Leila
took a deep breath of fresh air to clear her head.
Had she
just had a fit of madness? Shouldn’t a sane person be terrified of what had
just happened?
Leila
turned her perceptions inward but experienced only a dawning sense of wonder
and curiosity.
She’d
had a vision. She’d
seen Lord John as he truly was. Or at least that’s what she thought she’d seen,
before she’d gone mad and lashed out without regard to caution or propriety.
It had
felt wonderful.
Leila
sniffed the vial of toadstools in her hand and tried to summon the vision
again, but it was gone. If only she could duplicate the
circumstances . . .
The
perfume had so wonderfully mimicked Lord John’s character. Perhaps she should
attempt to reproduce another perfume for someone else . . .
Perhaps
she ought to find a less explosive personality on which to experiment.
Riding
out after the storm passed over, Dunstan realized he’d turned his horse in the
direction of Leila’s mansion when he met up with a local squire going the other
way. The man’s horse limped, and the squire threw Dunstan a rueful look as he
halted in the lane. “Damned mare pulled a shoe. You’re late; you’ll miss the
fun.”
“What
fun?” It was afternoon, too early for evening festivities and too wet for
outdoor ones.
The
squire grinned. “Didn’t get an invite? The new viscount is a chip off the old
earl’s block. Hunting mad, he is.”
“Hunting?”
An ominous premonition formed in Dunstan’s midsection.
“Rabbit
hunting,” the squire exclaimed in jolly tones. “Great fun, if you don’t mind
the trampling of fields this time of year.”
“The
viscount is hunting rabbits?” One man alone might avoid turning a newly tilled
field into a quagmire, Dunstan couldn’t imagine the citified young viscount
hunting alone.
“He
brought a party of young bucks down with him from Bath, all eager for sport.
Better hurry if you want to catch up with them.”
Fear and
fury welled equally as Dunstan touched his hat in farewell and kicked his horse
into a gallop. The damned fool Staines could turn a month’s hard work into a
wasteland of trampled plants and mud.
Dunstan
heard the horn and shouts of the hunt as he raced around the bend. Kneeing his
mount, he sailed over the hedgerow into the oxen field, hoping to cut them off.
If they stayed to the pastures, all might be well.
His heart
sank at the sight of drunken riders galloping around the hill, yelling and
whooping, in pursuit of a pack of hounds. He would need a squadron of cavalry
to stop that lot. No sane man raced his horse through wet grass in such a
manner. They’d all break their necks before they trampled any fields.
They
were headed straight for the new flower gardens.
If they
destroyed the budding roses or the first shoots of lavender, it would break
Leila’s heart. The heedlessness of the brats shot fury straight to his brain,
and Dunstan kneed his horse into a gallop that would cross the hunt’s path at
the diagonal. His clod-footed farm animal didn’t have the speed of their fine
Arabians, but it had the sureness of foot to navigate the slippery ground.
The dogs
howled past his horses’ hooves, chasing a hare straight through the arched
garden gate into the thorny thicket of roses. The recently turned earth
glistened with moisture from the storm. The light hare led the dogs away from
her young and deeper into the garden. The hounds slopped mud as they ran,
trampling the primrose border. Dunstan gritted his teeth at this desecration of
weeks of hard work and turned to concentrate on the larger danger.
Intercepting
the path of the riders before they could leap the hedges into the rose beds,
Dunstan raised his crop to the hindquarters of the lead horse. At his whack,
the animal whinnied and reared in panic. The horses racing up from behind split
and poured around the first one while its rider cursed and tried to rein in his
angry mount. Dunstan didn’t linger to help but raced alongside the pack heading
for the hedge, herding them as he would sheep, with blows and shouts.
He
couldn’t steer thousands of pounds of horseflesh all by himself.
He forgot
the drunken riders the instant he realized Leila was standing in the center of
the muddy rose bed, musket in hand, black curls streaming behind her in the
wind.
Alarm
struck his gut with the force of an iron fist.
At the
first howl of the hounds, Leila had known what Staines and Lord John were up
to. Without thought, she’d grabbed the hard pellets of bath scent she’d just
finished making and picked up the old musket the gardeners used to scare crows
away from her seedlings.
She raced
to the garden, adding the flower-scented beads to the gunpowder as she ran.
Furious, she raised the weapon toward the oncoming marauders.
She’d
found the first red rosebuds opening just this morning. In a few short days,
they would fill the air with rich perfume. Her heart’s desire was so
close . . .
Musket
lifted, she sighted along the barrel and aimed. This time, she would allow no
man to stop her.
Dunstan’s
furious flight across the pasture stilled Leila’s hand. Mad though she might
be, she couldn’t harm the one man in the whole countryside who had the courage to
waylay the drunken lordlings. Even in his unfashionable brown wool, Dunstan was
a formidable sight, whipping his brawny arm right and left, lashing the young
fools into order. The ribbon of his queue had come undone and his raven hair
streamed behind him.
The
hounds rushed howling through the arched gateway, sweeping past Leila’s
bedraggled skirts. Her hair had fallen down her back in her haste to reach the
roses. Could the vandals read her expression, they’d run for their damned
lives. She waved her arms and shouted curses, wishing she could turn them all
into toads. She imagined magic leaping from her fingertips.
Except
she had no magic.
It was
Dunstan who deflected first one rider, then another. Had the danger to her
garden not paralyzed her thoughts, she would have admired his skill and
bravery.
Taking
courage from him, she raised the musket over the party’s heads, and pulled the
trigger. The unorthodox ammunition hailed in stinging bites over hounds,
horses, and hunters, fouling the air with a stench of burned bath powder.
If the
pellets hit Dunstan, she would apologize later.
Horses
screamed in fright. Hounds scampered for the hills. Perfumed smoke curled and
choked the air as Dunstan used his crop on another rider who couldn’t control
his mount, setting the animal off in a different direction. Several of the more
drunken hunters fell, landing on the muddy ground with grunts and curses. Leila
noted with satisfaction that her nephew was among them.
Her
satisfaction lasted only long enough to see a black stallion bearing down on
her in complete disregard of the mud or the tender rose canes he trampled.
Unlike the other members of the hunting party, this rider appeared to be in
complete control of his mount.
Lord
John.
Leila’s
concern had been entirely for her infant plants rather than herself until she
registered the young lordling’s icy eyes. Trapped in a thicket of thorns, she
could not run. Her musket, now empty of ammunition, was useless as anything but
a cudgel. Heart pounding in sudden fear, she raised the barrel and prayed she
could beat off a ton of galloping horseflesh.
She
didn’t have to.
Dunstan
streaked across the trampled bed to intercept horse and rider. Leila shut her
eyes tight in anticipation of the imminent collision. A horse shrieked, a man
shouted, and she was abruptly airborne.
Clutching
the solid arm wrapped about her waist, she opened her eyes to see the grass
flying by beneath her. She was out of the briars. At Dunstan’s grim expression
as he reined in his mount, she thought perhaps she was in the soup instead.
Leila
clung to his coat sleeve, refusing to be let down until Dunstan slid off the
horse with her. She didn’t want to release him. She’d not thought herself frail
until he held her so effortlessly, and now she didn’t want to be parted from
his strength. She would have been crushed by all that horseflesh if Lord John
had had his way.
She
glanced at the garden and trembled in rage and grief.
Her
rosebuds! Falling to her knees on the edge of a bed of new reddish-green
leaves, she hastily checked the canes. With a cry of hope, she located first
one unfurling flower, then another. She scanned the beds that Dunstan had
planted in meticulous circles, the arching rose stems that would cover the
garden in heavy fragrance and glorious color in less than a month. They were
still almost entirely intact.
She
gulped back sobs, yet tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.
“You
saved my roses!” Weak with gratitude, Leila flung her arm around the powerful
leg of the man standing protectively over her.
He
reached down to help her up. Fighting tears and steadying her shaking knees,
she fell into Dunstan’s comforting embrace. Absorbing his surprising
tenderness, Leila was slow to realize his attention had strayed to the
shouting, cursing men who were picking themselves up out of the mud.
She dug
her fingers into his solid arm and dared a glance back at her once beautiful
garden. The vandals had uprooted tender seedlings, trampled neatly tilled
furrows, and wrecked the pergola and paths. But Dunstan’s reckless action had
saved the roses.
When she
looked across the field, her heart froze as she realized that the cost of her
stupidity was far higher than a few flowers.
Staines,
Wickham, Lord John, and several stragglers were coming toward them, their
furious gazes fixed on Dunstan. She knew she didn’t possess the physical
strength or the authority to save Dunstan as he’d saved her.
He knew
it too. He stiffened, but no expression reached his eyes.
“He’s a
murderer, Leila!” her nephew shouted. “This is what comes of harboring a
murderer. We could all have been killed.”
Leila
could feel Dunstan’s explosive tension beneath her fingers, but he didn’t
strike out as another man might have. He was twice her nephew’s size and could
have broken him in two. Right now, her fury was such that she wished Dunstan would
break the brat. But he didn’t lift a hand to defend himself.
“I want
you off my land,” Staines ranted. “You have twenty-four hours to pack and
leave.”
“I work
for the lady,” Dunstan answered coldly. “You are not in a position to tell me
what to do.”
“He’s in
a position to have you charged with assault and locked up until assizes are
called,” Wickham shouted. “I can bring charges, if I wish. Everyone knows you
killed my brother.”
“George
was stealing my horses,” Dunstan said. “No court of law will condemn me for
giving him the chance to defend himself.”
George
Wickham had also stolen Dunstan’s wife, but neither man mentioned that fact,
Leila noted as she watched the scene unfold. Nor did they mention that Lord John
could have maimed her in his malicious dash across the garden. Staines,
possibly at the behest of his grandfather, meant to drive her away, regardless
of the consequences.
Driving
Dunstan away would accomplish that.
“You
killed George and you killed your wife,” Wickham shouted, as if Dunstan had
said nothing. “And now you have nearly injured Staines. They should lock you
away for the safety of society.”
While
Wickham spoke, Lord John smugly studied Leila in her torn gown, loose hair, and
muddied face. Then, with a triumphant smile, he swung on his heel and walked
away, satisfied that he’d had his revenge.
Leila
watched Dunstan’s fingers clenching in helpless fists as he stood there,
defenseless against their foolish threats. He’d ridden into battle to defend
her like a knight in shining armor, but the guilt festering inside him stripped
away the bright armor, leaving a man wounded to the depth of his being.
Somehow,
she had to free this valiant knight from his demons.
Turning
on her nephew, Leila waved her musket at him. “You are no longer welcome in my
home,” she shouted, pleased to see him flinch at the reminder that the house
and grounds still belonged to her. “You and your wretched friends may play your
games elsewhere. I’ll have the servants pack your bags and heave them into the
drive. Should you ever show your faces here again, I’ll call the magistrate and
hire men to cast you bodily into the street.”
“He’s
the cause of this!” Staines shouted back, pointing at Dunstan. “Wickham told me
what he did to his wife. You can’t consort with criminals, Leila! My
grandfather will order him arrested.”
“Your
grandfather isn’t here. Leave, before I call in the magistrate.”
Furious,
the young viscount stomped after Lord John and Wickham.
“My
turnips are already planted,” Dunstan said flatly as the young lordlings sought
their animals. “I cannot leave.”
Leila
punched the powerful arm that had supported her. “You’d better worry about your
head instead of your damned turnips. His grandfather is an earl who can
influence the magistrate with just a letter.”
She could
save his turnips. But she wasn’t a witch or a miracle worker. He had to save
himself.
The odor
of Dunstan’s fury was fresh and bracing and far stronger than Wickham’s
bitterness or Lord John’s cruelty. She knew that by working together, they
could resolve this crisis.
And she
also knew that working with Dunstan Ives could be a danger to her heart and
soul.
Remembering
his courageous action when no one else had come to her aid, Leila was willing
to take that risk.
Taking Leila up on the back of his old gelding, Dunstan wrapped her in
his arms as if she belonged there. He wanted the right to shelter this spirited
woman forever, protecting her from the world’s iniquities.
And he
wanted to console himself in the process, he acknowledged.
Not
understanding why he felt compelled to protect a woman who possessed far more
power than he ever would, he was silenced by confusion.
In his
arms she felt slender and defenseless.
She was a
Malcolm, he reminded himself, and anything but defenseless. She tilted her chin
defiantly, as if she were prepared to take on an army. Dunstan relied on her
good sense not to plot anything foolish. The idea of what a Malcolm might do in
retaliation gave him cold shivers.
She
didn’t protest when he delivered her to her door. “I need to speak with you
tonight, after I remove these leeches,” she told him with her accustomed
authority, although her wording revealed a hint of vulnerability.
He
hesitated. For the good of all, he needed to pack his bags and leave.
As if
understanding his intention, Leila continued before he could reject her plea.
“I learned something important today. I’ll wear sackcloth and ashes if I must.
I promise not to manipulate, seduce, or whatever else you expect of me, but I
must talk with you.”
He didn’t
tell her that he wanted to see her so much that he feared himself and not her.
Speaking to the butler who appeared behind her, reassuring himself that her
loyal staff would take care of her and follow her orders to bar the gentlemen,
Dunstan turned to find Leila watching him with eyes shimmering with hope and
trust.
She
trusted him—a man whom all London despised.
He
couldn’t disappoint the one woman who believed in him.
Dunstan
set his jaw, nodded curtly, and departed. He had the sinking feeling he’d just
committed his fate to forces beyond his control.
At home,
he ignored Griffith’s questions, changed from his muddy clothes, silently
shared the supper Martha had left, and cogitated on the enormity of his
problem.
He could
lose his crop as easily as Leila had almost lost hers.
He didn’t
waste time questioning the injustice that gave power to spoiled brats. Instead,
he applied his formidable thought processes to the dilemma of saving both his
experimental plants and his hide, while also protecting Leila’s interests.
Dunstan
remained confident of his ability to turn the lady’s estate into a viable,
profitable farm that would feed and clothe an entire village while keeping her
nephew in silk coats. But he’d been arrogant in thinking that he could ignore
society. Pride came before a fall, and there was his stumbling block.
He
couldn’t ignore the society he despised, and that despised and feared him in
return. They would crucify him. Leila was part of that society. Because of him,
they might crucify her as well.
He forced
aside a rising panic and proceeded logically, one fact at a time.
A man was
only as good as his reputation. It wasn’t enough to have a gift for growing
things. Stoically, he faced that sorry fact as he had not done before. He’d
counted on men recognizing his abilities, but how many would see beyond scandal
to his unfashionable achievements? In the eyes of the world, he was a man who
had murdered his wife and nothing else.
Had he
any true urge to kill, he would certainly have done so today when that nasty
bit of venom had threatened Leila. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t
imagine killing Celia, despite her treachery. He was a grower and a nurturer,
not a murderer. He didn’t even own a sword, much less a pistol.
But the
world had no reason to believe him if he couldn’t believe in himself.
While
seeing Griffith into bed, banking the fires, trimming the candlewicks, Dunstan
followed the logical progression of that realization. It led directly to Lady
Leila.
He couldn’t
reject her summons this time. He had to tell her his reasons for leaving.
It took
no more thought than that to lead him into the warm evening air where insects
hummed, night birds called, and his horse nickered in anticipation.
All his
senses quickening, he fed the horse a handful of oats, bridled him, and in too
much haste for a saddle, mounted and rode to the manor.
He tied
his reins to a low tree branch and, not wanting to disturb the household or
taint the lady’s reputation, took a pathway behind the house, to just below
Leila’s balcony. A candle burned somewhere deep within the room.
Testing a
thick rope of ivy, Dunstan pulled himself upward, finding footholds in the
uneven stone to support his weight.
No
draperies concealed the view through the balcony door as he swung his leg over
the railing. A candle flickering on a bedside table illuminated Leila curled
upon the turned-back covers, her hair spread across the pillows as if she’d
fallen asleep waiting for him. Trying the French door and finding it unlocked,
Dunstan watched her turn on her back as he entered. Her blue velvet dressing
robe fell open to reveal the gossamer glimmer of her nightshift.
Thinking
that she had awakened, he approached the tester bed, but Leila tossed
restlessly. He wondered if she dreamed of him as he often did of her.
More
arrogance for him to think so.
Tension
coiled as he debated leaving without speaking to her.
Uncertain
whether he could resist the tentative strands binding them, he hated to wake
her.
He rubbed
his hand over his face in frustration and caught a glimpse of bare leg in the
flickering light. The lady had beautiful limbs, and curves a man would die to
touch.
As a
young man, he’d been infatuated with Celia’s beauty, but what he felt now was
far beyond such a small thing as infatuation. Crossing his arms and leaning
against the bedpost, Dunstan gazed upon a woman who had courageously held off a
tribe of drunken lordlings, a woman who believed in herself enough to dare hire
a man with his black reputation, a woman wise enough to believe in him without
question.
A woman
who had offered her body and herself without expecting anything in return—not
wealth or title or even a declaration of affection.
Leila
stirred again, one leg pushing at the covers, and he couldn’t tear his gaze
away from the sight. Her robe formed a velvet backdrop to rich curves revealed
by the sheer gown. Even a saint wouldn’t have been able to resist, and Dunstan
knew he was no saint.
He sat on
the bed’s edge and inched her gown higher, caressing a shapely calf to wake
her. She merely shifted position so that her toes crept across his knees.
He’d had
years of practice in self-control, but this woman defied his ability to
maintain it.
Lifting
her bare foot, Dunstan kissed her toes, touching them with his tongue. Even the
bottoms of her feet smelled of roses, and he gave in to the temptation to suck
on a pink delicacy. She moaned and arched her hips.
Enthralled,
Dunstan tasted her ankles, ran his fingers up her calf, and slid her gown
higher to see if he could elicit further response. The idea that a lady as
sophisticated and beautiful as this one might succumb to a rustic like him
appealed to his baser instincts far more than he cared to examine.
To his
utter delight, she moaned again, muttering something in her sleep. Her hands
lifted and dropped helplessly against the covers.
He wanted
her to dream of him.
No longer
hesitating, Dunstan slid her gown upward, uncovering the perfect curve of ivory
hips, flat stomach, and rich midnight curls begging for his caress. The
tightening in his groin warned of the danger of this game he played, but after
she’d won the round in the cave, he deserved this sweet revenge.
He
touched her where she was moist and ready, and paused to see if he’d woken her
yet. Her eyelids remained closed and still, but her breasts rose and fell at an
increased pace.
With a
smile of satisfaction, Dunstan dipped his head to taste the honey. He would
wake her now.
Dreaming
of rippling water and velvet air caressing her breasts, Leila dug her fingers
into the sheets and shivered with arousal. The scent of fresh grass and hot sex
returned her to the grotto, where she flew wild and free over the water,
knowing Dunstan lurked in the shadows. She could feel the cool, moist air, the
heat of desire, and she wanted him desperately—
Heated
lips tugged between her parted legs, and she cried out as her body bucked in
anticipation.
The dream
of the cave receding, Leila awakened with a cry of protest at the unknown
invader, but the fire heating her blood urged mindless surrender. The devil had
a firm grip, and his tempting tongue had already led her body to the precipice.
She quaked and shuddered as he pressed deeper, demanding total capitulation.
Without her will, her hips arched to accept it.
The heat
dissipated, leaving her hungry for completion. The loss awoke her enough to
associate the scent of new-mown grass with the dastardly man lifting his dark
eyes to meet hers. The sight of his rugged cheekbones and thick black hair
aroused her even more. Bending over and bracing himself on one elbow, Dunstan
suckled her breast, sapping any token protest. Before she could recover, his
knowing fingers sought and stroked, then opened and invaded, driving all
thought from her mind.
Choking
back moans, Leila surrendered to waves of pleasure. Her hips drove upward,
demanding more, and when he obliged, using mouth as well as fingers, she
shattered into a thousand multicolored pieces. He’d overpowered her will, her
body, her senses, possessed her in some manner she couldn’t comprehend, without
losing a particle of himself in the process. He was still fully dressed.
She had
no strength left with which to fight when he finally lay down beside her, a
possessive hand cupping her breast.
“I’ll be
leaving for London as soon as I can find help to oversee your gardens,” he
announced.
“Even if
he is the heir, Staines is no longer welcome on this land, so long as I live,”
she murmured in protest. “I’ve had their baggage thrown out, and ordered the
servants to bar the doors against them.” Her body still ached, and this
disturbing man beside her was responsible. He couldn’t leave now that she’d
cleared the way for him to stay.
“That
isn’t the solution. They’ll throw slanderous charges at me, and he and his
grandfather will find ways to punish you.”
Surely he
couldn’t be as calm as he sounded. Leila reached for the broad expanse of shirt
looming over her, undid the ties, and reveled in the sharp intake of his
breath. So, he wasn’t as entirely in command as he pretended.
“They
tried to destroy me.” Her voice cracked slightly. “They tore up my laboratory,
damaged my flower beds, and would have done worse had you not arrived. I could
not let them go unpunished.”
“Your
laboratory?”
Soothingly,
Dunstan kissed her forehead and smoothed back her hair, and Leila fought back
tears at his tenderness. She wanted to be angry, to fight and throw things, but
she was new to these emotions, and his concern weakened her. Defiantly, she
slid her hands beneath the shirt she’d opened, shoved it from his shoulders,
and rubbed the hard swells of his bronzed chest, basking in his shudder of
desire.
She
didn’t want to think about the months of work lying on her laboratory floor or
of the seedlings trampled into mud. She definitely didn’t want to think about how
she had failed as a Malcolm, failed her family and herself.
“Why
would Staines destroy your laboratory?” he demanded when she rearranged her
position to brush his stockinged leg with her bare toes.
“Staines
didn’t do it,” she murmured against his shoulder, disappointed that he didn’t
accept her invitation. “He’s merely a child who thought all would go his way
because he wished it so. He wants me to marry Wickham or Lord John and leave
him alone to play in his sandbox.”
At the
mention of that hated name, Dunstan tensed. “Did Wickham hurt you?”
Leila’s
ebony curls brushed his chin as she shook her head. “Lord John. That’s what I
wanted to tell you. We were in the laboratory, and I had an extraordinary
vision of him as a spoiled young man casting aside a pregnant maidservant. It
caught me by surprise, and I spilled a few drops of scent on him. We exchanged
words, and he struck out wildly, destroying my things. I chased him off easily
enough. But I need to see if I was hallucinating or if I can make the vision
come again.”
Steeling
himself against his baser urges, Dunstan brushed kisses across Leila’s head,
soothing her confusion and unhappiness, while seeking that place in his mind
where logic rather than impulse dwelled. She didn’t need his anger at a time like
this.
“What
kind of scent?” he asked when she curled against his shoulder.
She
chuckled, and Dunstan relaxed his guard. If she wasn’t weeping, he could handle
this talking business. He couldn’t remember ever carrying on a conversation
with a nearly naked woman while lying in bed, but he could come to enjoy it.
“I
created a wicked scent just for him. I used camphor and myrrh, and he didn’t
even notice that he reeked of toadstools.”
In the
back of Dunstan’s mind, a warning bell clamored. This was no ordinary female he
held. This was a sophisticated, knowledgeable woman of unusual insight whose
family could topple governments with the sheer weight of their wealth and
power. If they chose to use their unnatural gifts as well, who knew what they
could accomplish?
“You
created the scent just for Lord John?”
Leila
kissed a sensitive place behind his ear, and it took every ounce of Dunstan’s
strength to stay with the conversation. She licked his ear, shooting a prickly
path of desire clear to his groin.
So much for
her promise not to seduce, although to be fair, he’d started this game. How
could one carry on a rational discussion with a woman draped in velvet and
little more?
“That’s
what I do, create scents,” she answered matter-of-factly. “It’s the reason I
want a garden. I have a nose for fragrances that suit people.”
More
likely, she has a nose for trouble. Dunstan’s hand strayed to caress the globe of
her breast, but the warning bells clamored louder, and he focused upon her
words. “Suit people?” he asked.
Her
laughter was low and warm. “Like the one you’re wearing. It smells of all the
good things of the earth, sun and green grass and heat. I made it just for
you.”
The soap
he couldn’t throw away. Firmly, Dunstan lifted her from his side, far enough
away to let his lust-riddled brain concentrate. “You bewitch your perfumes?”
“I don’t
bewitch anything,” she answered impatiently. “I have no gifts like the rest of
my family. I’m a useless, powerless bit of fluff.”
The pain
reflected in her assertion caught him by surprise. He couldn’t think of any
woman less like fluff than this one. “I’ve never heard of a Malcolm who doesn’t
have some weird power,” he said gruffly, before he could reconsider.
She
smacked his arm. Definitely not the right thing to say, he guessed.
“I have
an excellent nose for scent. That’s my talent, and it’s not weird. French
perfumers are much sought after for that ability.” She propped herself on her
elbow, black curls falling over her bare shoulders and breasts. She ran her
fingers up and down his shirt, dismissing the subject with deliberate
seduction.
He might
rouse to the seduction, but his mind had gripped an anomaly and clung to it
like a dog to a bone.
“You
created a scent for Lord John and saw a vision of what lies behind his genial
expression,” Dunstan pointed out with inexorable certainty. “Your soap follows
me around like a pet puppy. What truth did it reveal to you?”
Her
fingers stilled, and she stared at him in the candlelight. Her eyes weren’t the
fair blue of her sisters’ but a deep blue that appeared nearly black in this
light. Velvet lashes ringed them, and he had the wild notion that she should
always dress in velvet. It suited her, rich and sensuous, crushable and lovely.
“My soap
makes you smell desirable?” she asked mockingly.
“Maybe
its scent duplicates my fear and prejudice.” He answered his own question,
following the path of his logic. “I was afraid I’d killed Celia, afraid all the
world rejected me, and I hated society for it.”
“My
soap exposed your fears and prejudices?” she scoffed. “And that’s why you came
here tonight? Because you no longer fear you killed Celia? My, my, that soap
must be tremendously good to convince a mighty Ives he’s not a fool.”
Dunstan
laughed aloud at her backhanded insult, but he heard her self-doubt, and the
vulnerability behind it. Since his own doubts ran rampant, he had no experience
in how to reassure her. “I think more experimentation may be called for,” he
answered, attempting to think while she wreaked havoc with her manicured
fingers. “But it is entirely out of character for Lord John to lose his temper
with a woman he wishes to court.”
Releasing
him from torment, Leila fell back against the pillow and stared at the canopy.
“Men do stupid things. Just look at you. I’m lying here at your disposal, and
all you do is talk.”
He
chuckled and leaned over and kissed her jawline, relishing her quiver of
desire.
She
responded by tugging his shirt out of his breeches and running her hands
beneath it. He must either roll out of bed now, or give in to the lady’s
demands.
Respect
their differences, she had asked of him that morning after they’d made love,
and he’d told her to go away. Her suggestion didn’t sound so foolish now.
Plants required both sun and rain to grow. It took both man and woman to make joyous
love. Perhaps it took an agronomist and a witch to find Celia’s murderer or to
discover the source of her Malcolm power. Two sides of the coin to make one
whole.
She was
courageous and strong and independent. She believed in him. He need only believe
in himself, and she was his for the taking.
With a
woman like this to encourage him, he could do no less.
Heart
rising to his throat, self-doubt threatening to engulf him, Dunstan quit
fighting the magnetic pull between them.
“Tell
me,” he whispered, nibbling her ear. “Does the seed we planted grow yet? Shall
we expect a harvest after Christmastide?” He placed a hand low on her abdomen
to tell her he wasn’t talking about gardens.
Dunstan’s
arousal pressed against Leila’s hip, his kisses whispered promises she
willingly accepted. Why did he not simply take her instead of asking questions
for which she had no answers?
Impatiently,
she ran her fingers over the firm muscles of his chest, but a small stirring of
panic lodged in her heart as she counted the days. She couldn’t be pregnant,
not in one try, not after all the years of failure. But he was an Ives and she
was a Malcolm . . .
Defiantly,
she ran her hands down his abdomen and lower, pressing her fingers to the thick
shaft straining at his buttons. She smiled at his muttered curses. “I prefer to
tend that field myself,” she answered sweetly. And she wanted it plowed. Now.
She squeezed and elicited another curse.
“It only
matters in how I take you,” he muttered. “I would not risk getting you with
child if we escaped the first time.”
The
flutter of panic spread deeper, but she wouldn’t give in to it. She might be a
poor excuse for a Malcolm, but she could deal with whatever this Ives chose to
give her. Her fingers pried at his breeches buttons, and this time he didn’t
halt her. He groaned when she finally gripped his heavy flesh, and a thrill of
triumph excited her. She might be a failure at many things, but not in
seduction.
“I’ll
take the risk,” she murmured, pushing his shirt up to kiss the broad, lightly furred
chest looming over her.
“I’ll
not.” He rolled off, leaving a cold draft where he’d warmed her just seconds
before.
She would
have gone for his jugular except she could see he was tugging off his shirt and
sitting on the bed’s edge, yanking off his boots. Her insides clenched in
anticipation. Powerful muscles rippled across Dunstan’s back as he stood to
remove his breeches, and she wished she had more candles when he faced her.
She’d known he was a large man, but her breath caught in her throat at his impressive
size.
She
wanted to cry in protest when he slipped a sheath over all that potent flesh,
but it would have been a foolish objection. Instead, she reached up and tied
the silken strings. He had Griffith and didn’t need children of her, just the
pleasure she offered. She could accept that.
His kiss,
when it came, removed any regret.
“You’re
the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met,” he murmured against her lips,
pushing the velvet robe from her shoulders. “You should wear blue more often.
It suits you as well as red.” He possessed her mouth with his tongue,
forestalling any protest.
Leila
couldn’t have spoken had she wanted. She drank in the soul-satisfying
nourishment of his kiss while his talented fingers cupped and tantalized and
caressed until she nearly burst with anticipation. She dug her fingers into his
strong upper arms, but Dunstan merely positioned his weight over her and
continued to leisurely explore her mouth, filling her lungs with his breath
while his hands mastered her in other ways.
Pushing
her bodice aside, he deepened his kiss. With his fingers plying the aching
peaks of her breasts, Leila moaned in submission. She traced her hands over his
chest, sought to return the pleasure, but he was well beyond her command. He
parted her legs with his knees, and she could not have stopped him had she
tried. She didn’t try.
“I don’t
think I can share you with another man as I did Celia,” he murmured, releasing
her mouth and trailing feathery kisses across her cheek. “Tell me I’m the only
man you need.”
It
frightened her to think in such terms, of being possessed solely by one man
again. She was her own woman now. He had no right—
“Tell me
and mean it.” He bent and licked her nipple, and she arched upward. She could
feel the brush of his arousal where she needed him, but he merely slid back and
forth, searing but not satisfying.
She
ignored his demands and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was stronger and
held back, poised at the brink but no closer. “Leila,” he warned, “say it now,
or we’ll both lose. I know you’re not Celia, but I cannot share you.”
The thin
edge of control in his voice shattered her will. To be desired so intensely by
this man was well worth whatever she gave up. That he needed only her promise
to trust her said more than she dared hope. She knew he would not ask had he
not decided to stay with her and help her. Joy and relief added to the
intensity of her desire. “I could never want another,” she agreed, with
terrifying honesty. “Please.”
“Ah,
Leila . . .” He kissed her and whispered, “Thank you,” so
quietly that Leila wasn’t at all certain she’d heard him.
Without
warning, Dunstan lifted her so he could remove the gown tangled around her
waist. Taking a rosy nipple in his mouth, he positioned himself between her
legs. She whimpered, but not in protest. The refined lady arched her hips in
womanly demand, and he was lost in the warm cream of soft curves and her scent
of roses and cinnamon.
Her
musical cry pleased his ears as he gripped her thighs and sheathed himself in
the passage moistened by his earlier lovemaking. He nearly passed out from the
rush of blood as her inner muscles tightened around him. Clinging to his
restraint, he deepened his invasion until she bucked and writhed and wept
beneath him. He knew that by taking possession of her like this, he bent her to
his will. Power was a dangerous thing. They would both be better off
recognizing their limits now.
“You had
best not use your spells on me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into the curve of
her jaw and throat.
“They’re
not spells,” she protested breathlessly.
His thumb
rubbed the place where they were joined, and she protested no more.
Unable to
hold back as her muscles gripped him, he withdrew slightly, and plunged again.
Her shuddering cry of pleasure was his undoing. With a few short strokes, he
drove her to screams of joy. As she quaked beneath him, Dunstan released all
the hunger and need in a prolonged explosion of ecstasy.
It was
simple, really, Dunstan decided as he collapsed into Leila’s welcoming embrace.
He was in control so long as he did what she wanted.
“I am not a free man, Lily,” Dunstan
repeated, fastening his shirt in the feeble light of a candle lit from the
guttering flame of the last one. “I have a son who deserves my attention, and
you have a reputation to uphold. I cannot stay with you.”
Sitting
up against her pillows, Leila pulled a sheet over her breasts as if that
gesture could hide the stabbing pain of his departure. Tears threatened to
spill from her eyes as she watched him prepare to leave her. She’d thought he understood.
How could he abandon her like this? The bed was already turning cold where he’d
lain beside her. Hadn’t what they’d just done and said meant anything to him?
She hid a tear by lifting the pillow still containing his heady scent and
burying her face in it.
“You
called me Lily,” she murmured, focusing on the one thing she might settle
between them. “Does that mean you prefer to think of me that way, and not as a
viscountess?”
Dunstan
unexpectedly placed one knee on the bed, cupped her jaw with his big brown
hand, and stroked her cheek as gently as if she were a child. As she peered
from her pillow, he offered a wry, self-deprecating smile that charmed her.
“Lady Lily,” he corrected, “both lady and beautiful flower. But I need to think
of you as my employer now, if I’m to do this right.”
“Do what
right?” she whispered in confusion. How could he act as if she mattered to him
and yet still leave her alone?
He
pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood up again, returning to dressing,
speaking as if he were her estate agent, and she were behind her desk. “I’ll
give orders to have your garden repaired and reassure your tenants that you,
not Staines, are in charge, but I must leave for London as soon as possible.”
“You
would go without me?” she asked incredulously, finally grasping what was
happening.
Dunstan
drew on his breeches and tucked in his shirt. “You may go or stay, as you wish.
I have no say in the matter. I’m just telling you I’ll be going to London, and
I must take Griffith with me. I’ll no longer neglect him.”
Leila
flung off the sheet in a rage as she fully understood why the infuriating man
meant to abandon her. Now the damned man had decided to clear his name!
Why the devil hadn’t he said so? Or asked for her help?
Heaven
forbid an Ives should ask a Malcolm for anything.
How the devil
did people get through each day while driven up and down by these insane
currents of emotion?
“What do
you intend to do,” she asked in impatience, “parade through ballrooms demanding
to know who killed your wife? Hold them at bay with explosives until someone
admits his guilt?”
She
hunted for her robe amid the covers, noting with satisfaction that Dunstan’s
hands had halted over his buttons. Defiantly, she swung her naked posterior practically
in his face.
“I have
no idea what I’ll do,” he admitted. “I’ll just do what needs to be done.”
“Ha! You
can’t hide the smell of fear, Dunstan Ives. The idea of London terrifies you.
You’ll be lost without me.”
She
pulled on her robe and tied it closed before turning around at Dunstan’s
unusual silence. He stared at her, his breeches still partially unfastened.
“What?” she demanded. “Do I have feathers in my hair? It’s not as if I rise
from bed in perfect elegance, you know.”
“The
smell of fear?” he asked with a degree of care.
She
gestured impatiently and sought her brush on the vanity table. “It’s nothing to
be ashamed of. Yours is merely a fear of ignorance. Now Lord
John . . .” She shuddered as she attempted to restore order to
her curls. “The man simply reeks of hostility when he’s upset.”
“What
else do you smell on me?” Dunstan asked, returning to fastening his breeches.
Leila
smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “Do you seek compliments, sir? What do
I get in return? Will you tell me my eyes are as dark as midnight?”
“Leila,”
he answered, coming up behind her and removing the brush from her fingers,
“don’t tease. I’ve not the patience for it. Tell me what you smell on me, good
or bad.”
She
frowned at his tone but shrugged. “You smell of the same scents as the soap I
created for you. You smell of the earth, and sunshine, of confidence and power.
And of desire,” she added wickedly. “Your desire is more powerful than that of
most men. Now, you must return the favor. What am I?”
“A
witch,” he said deliberately, holding a strand of hair in one hand, and gently
tugging the brush through it with the other. “You terrify me. All I can see are
your striking looks. I sense your arrogance and some instinct I cannot define
or understand, but I can’t smell fear, Leila.”
“That’s
because I’m not afraid.” She took the brush back and pulled it more rapidly
through her hair.
“People
can’t smell fear, Leila,” he said softly, gripping her shoulders, forcing her
to look up at their reflections. “I can’t smell desire, even if I know
you feel it.”
“Don’t be
foolish.” She glared at the reflection of his shirt, wishing he were a shorter
man so she could see his expression in the mirror. “How would you know when I
feel lust unless you smell it?” Something in the way he gripped her shoulders
warned her that this conversation was important to him. She stiffened and
turned to read his face. Surprise and something less identifiable floated in
the air between them.
He’d tied
his hair back in its queue, emphasizing the squareness of his beard-stubbled
jaw. His open shirt revealed a strong brown throat and an enticing mat of dark
curls that her fingers itched to touch. Rather than looking piratical, he
looked fascinated—by her.
Dunstan’s
lips curled up at one corner. His whole demeanor changed when he smiled,
creating a bone-melting charm. Her heart lurched beneath that look, and she
wished they could tear off their clothes and return to bed. He wished it too.
She could smell it. She eyed him suspiciously.
“I know
you feel desire,” he said, “because I see it in your eyes and in the way your
lips grow wet and inviting and in other ways I can’t specify. But I can’t smell
desire any more than I can smell fear.”
“Well, I
always knew Ives were peculiar creatures.” She turned back to the mirror, but
the brush lay limp in her hand. Whatever the scent that he gave off now, it
made her uneasy.
He
chuckled and ran his hands up and down the velvet arms of her robe. “Not as
peculiar as Malcolms, my dear. Tell your mother sometime that you smell fear
and desire; see what she says.”
Her
family accepted eccentricity without a second thought. Caught up in their
London whirl, they took Leila’s social graces for granted and paid little heed
to the subtleties of character and emotion she discerned. Only Dunstan had done
that.
People
truly didn’t smell fear? She simply couldn’t conceive of it. She’d known the
scent from a very early age. She’d learned to recognize scents from her
mother’s pomanders, hadn’t she? The candle recipe that stimulated desire was
one of her mother’s most popular scents. Surely people smelled the lust in it.
“You’re
being ridiculous.” Her uneasiness didn’t disappear, but Leila fought it. “If
you don’t want me to go to London with you, just say so. Don’t make fun of me.”
“I
daresay I’ll poke fun at you as often as you do me, but this isn’t one of those
times. I’m quite serious, Lily. Other people don’t smell fear or lust, or earth
or sunshine. If we hold soil to our noses, we smell dirt, but I don’t think
that’s what you meant, was it?”
“No, of
course not.” Growing irritable, she slapped the brush back on the table. “Dirt
smells like dirt. Some smells good, some smells musty, or whatever, but it’s
dirt. Smelling of earth isn’t the same. It’s . . .
it’s . . .” She struggled to define exactly what she meant by
earth. It represented all the good, solid things of this world, life and
fertility and . . . the language lacked the right words.
“It’s
something you smell that others do not.” Dunstan leaned over and placed a
blood-tingling kiss on her cheek. “Let us respect our differences, as you said,
and learn from each other.”
“We
disagree on everything,” she reminded him. “How will we do that?”
“I have
no idea, but it certainly won’t be boring,” he answered, caressing her cheek.
“Believe in what your nose tells you, Leila. Your family can do what others
cannot because they believe in things others call foolish. Trust your
instincts.”
He
released her to finish dressing. Leila clung to the warmth left by his hands as
long as she could. Desire seeped through her veins, and in its wake came a
powerful need to explore.
Trust her
instincts.
Instinct
said she belonged with Dunstan Ives, that he could teach her far more than she
would ever learn on her own.
Yet as a
child, she’d been taught to distrust Ives men, that they had nothing to offer
Malcolm women.
Trust
instinct? Trust an Ives?
Uncertainly, Leila faced the boy opening the door of Dunstan’s cottage
later that morning. He was nearly as tall as she, with a shaggy head of dark
hair and striking black eyes just like his father’s. It was one thing to take a
man as lover. It was quite another to face the reminder that he had a family
and a life beyond the one they shared in their private moments.
Was she
selfish in coming here to ask that he delay the trip to London just a little
longer? She needed more time to experiment. He needed more time to learn how to
behave in the city. She wanted him to take her with him, but she didn’t know
how to suggest it.
She’d
never had to share her actions and decisions with anyone, or ask them to share
theirs. Even when married, she had made her own choices. Uncertainty made her
nervous.
Wrapped
in her own concerns, she’d done her very best not to think about Dunstan’s
family, but something told her she’d better confront that reality now.
“Lady
Leila?” the boy asked with the same uncertainty that was unsettling her.
“And you
are Griffith.” He reeked of rebelliousness, but his age offered a better excuse
for it than that of her grown nephew. “You are the perfect image of your
father. Is he here?”
“Yes,
m-my lady,” he stuttered, glancing back into the house.
“Griffith,
who is it?” Dunstan called from the interior.
Pleasure
shivered down Leila’s spine at the sound of his voice. When he appeared in the
room behind Griffith, her skin tingled with remembered joy. The loneliness
inside her opened up and welcomed the man walking toward her with such
masculine assurance. It was rather an intimidating experience not to restrain
her feelings as she was accustomed to doing, yet she smiled in trust and relief
at his approach, and a pleasurable warmth enveloped her at the appreciative
look he offered in return.
“Let the
lady in,” he ordered. Still in stockinged feet, he shrugged on his vest and dug
at his disordered hair to straighten it, as if he’d just arisen from bed—as he
probably had, given their late hours the night past.
Griffith
stepped aside, and Leila brushed by him, unable to take her gaze from the man
who had taught her so much already, the man from whom she could learn so much
more. Anticipation spilled through her like that of a child at Christmas. “I
have been thinking.”
A wry
smile curled Dunstan’s handsome mouth. “Always a dangerous proposition.
Griffith, you had best run outside before the lady explodes.”
The boy
looked from one to the other of them and didn’t budge.
“I don’t
think warning him of an impending explosion is the correct incentive to send
him away,” said Leila. Such silliness, yet she couldn’t help tweaking his Ives
nature. “Tell him nothing will explode, and he’ll wander away in boredom.”
Griffith
bit back a grin and edged toward the kitchen. His father chuckled and relaxed.
“All right, so we know each other too well. It’s probably not wise to teach him
Malcolm tricks either, so perhaps we should go outside.”
“I’ll hoe
the turnips,” Griffith offered, skipping backward, still watching Leila.
“You’re prettier than Aunt Ninian,” he blurted.
“Out!”
Dunstan roared, not turning to watch his son. “Or you’ll haul water the rest of
your born days.”
Reddening,
the boy turned and ran.
“Shame on
you,” Leila chided, sweeping past him to examine the sparse furniture of the
parlor, suddenly nervous at being left alone with a man who knew her better
than she knew herself. “He’s a charming boy. You must teach him to speak
properly, not bellow at him as if he were a beast in the field.”
“That’s
what we beasts do—bellow. You shouldn’t come here unescorted. It doesn’t take
long for tongues to flap.”
She waved
a dismissive hand. “Let them flap. There are things of far greater importance
on my mind.”
She knew
he stood behind her, but he didn’t touch her. She wished he would. She knew why
he could not. The trust between them was still too fragile.
She stood
here, in his house, knowing they could never share it. She shivered and crossed
her arms to cup her elbows.
“I’m
listening,” he informed her gravely.
“Thank
you for that.” She lifted her chin and stared at the wall. “Before you go to
London, you must teach me . . .” She hesitated, uncertain how to
ask for what she wanted. “I wish to learn if there is any truth about what you
said last night. About my ability to smell emotions.”
His
fingers brushed her shoulder, briefly, reassuringly. “That might be easier done
in London. You need people on whom to experiment.”
She took
a deep breath of relief. He understood. She swung around and dared face him.
She didn’t read censure or disbelief or amusement in his eyes. He truly
believed she had a gift, and he respected it. She could not describe the heady
delight bubbling up inside her. Impulsively, she stroked his newly shaven jaw.
“I lived
in London all my life and knew nothing of my gift. Perhaps I need to be
isolated to fully realize it. Help me.”
“How can
I possibly help you when merely being associated with me could ruin your
reputation?” he asked. “I cannot stay here. I must take Griffith back to Drogo
and do what I can to clear my name.”
“If you
go to London, you will bellow and frighten people, then become angry and wring
necks to achieve what you want,” she predicted. “And nothing will be resolved.”
He
scowled and looked ferocious. “I know how to behave.”
“You
crushed a cigar on Lord Townsend’s foot,” she reminded him. “You lurked in the
conservatory and steamed. What are the chances that you’ll discover anything
worthwhile talking to plants?”
He rubbed
the back of his neck and stared at her with a look of growing incredulity.
“I’ll never hide from you, will I?”
“Did I
read you correctly?” Leila asked in delight. “Am I right?”
“You want
me to tell you yes and unleash another demon into my life?” he asked.
She
beamed. “Teach me to experiment, and I shall teach you to behave.”
“You’ll
what?” he roared.
“Teach
you to behave.” Demurely, she lifted her skirts and moved toward the door. “We
can go to my laboratory. Perhaps you can teach me how to duplicate my vision.
Ninian is arriving shortly. It would be rude of you to run away before she
arrives. I’ve arranged a small dinner in her honor. You can come and learn
social manners. We’ll share our differences. It will work.”
“You’ve
cast your wits to the wind!” he shouted after her. “I’d rather become a monk
and take a vow of silence than be forced to sit through another of your
dinners!”
She heard
his irresolution through the bluster. He wanted to work with her but simply
couldn’t admit it. She threw him a dazzling smile over her shoulder, and
slipped out the cottage door. Maybe she would manipulate, just a wee bit.
The
stubborn ass needed it occasionally.
“Lily,
Lily, we’re here, Lily!” Gay, childish voices called down the stone corridor
leading to the dairy where Leila was experimenting with a scent for her maid.
“Mama says you may have us until eternity or the end of summer, whichever comes
first. What’s eternity, Lily?”
Leila
smiled at the question from her youngest cousin, then let the smile fade as she
sensed another presence.
Setting
her latest perfume on a shelf, she unfastened her apron strings and waited for
the onslaught of laughing waifs racing toward her.
She
lifted and hugged the little ones, crouched down and kissed the older ones,
inhaled deeply of innocence and imagination and the fearlessness of
inexperience. They chattered of horses and coaches and the puppies they’d seen
at the inn, and Leila listened to them all, while conscious of the woman
waiting patiently in the doorway, her young son in her arms.
Ninian.
Short and
fair as a Malcolm should be, Ninian had been raised in the far north of
England, too far distant from the rest of the clan to ever be one of them.
Leila
blinked at that realization, and glanced up at the serene young woman. She had
always been envious of her younger cousin, but she saw their similarities now.
Despite her powerful gifts, Ninian still stood outside the family circle, as
alone as Leila felt.
Ninian
raised a questioning eyebrow as Leila came forward. Apparently she had
communicated her feelings in some manner that only Ninian could read. Lifting
Ninian’s young son into her arms, Leila gestured for the lot of them to precede
her. “Tea and tarts for everyone,” she cried. “Off with you, ladies. Wash your
hands, and tell Nurse to wipe the dirt from your faces.”
Chattering
children raced ahead, leaving Ninian and Leila to saunter behind them. In
Leila’s arms, Ninian’s one-year-old sucked his thumb and looked about with
typical Ives curiosity.
“You
should have children of your own,” Ninian said.
Remembering
her panic of last night when Dunstan had forced her to think of such things,
Leila attempted to stay calm. No one knew exactly how accurately Ninian could
read emotions because she was usually discreet, but Leila would rather not take
any chances. “Should, or will?” she asked, hiding her anxiety.
“It’s
much too early to tell of a certainty,” Ninian replied without any sign that
Leila’s question was unusual. “Grandmother was very vague about when babes have
souls. Until they do, there is little to detect but their physical presence.”
“How soon
did you know?” Leila tried not to hold her breath. It had been not quite a
month since that first magical night in the faerie cave. Her courses were late.
“I passed
through a faerie grove and felt Alan’s soul enter me.” A smile teased the
corner of Ninian’s lips. “I think Grandmother sent me an Ives soul on purpose.”
“Then it
probably entered kicking and screaming,” Leila replied, her mouth drying as she
considered all the ramifications of an Ives growing inside her.
They’d
reached the front foyer, where she must let Ninian go to her chamber and
freshen up, but she couldn’t bear to dismiss the subject yet. She needed to
know if she could possibly be carrying a child after all these years of
barrenness.
She
rather thought that was why Ninian was here.
Ninian
offered one of the dreamy smiles that made her Ives husband swear she departed
from her head and visited other planets. Reaching for her son, she beamed
benevolently at Leila. “The kicking and screaming will come for you when your
big bad Ives learns he’s sired a girl.”
She
ascended the stairs, tickling the child in her arms, leaving Leila hanging on
to the newel post with both hands.
At day’s end, after assigning the responsibility of temporary stewardship
to one of Leila’s more promising tenants, and reassuring the workers that all
would continue as usual, Dunstan returned to the cottage with the intention of
checking on his experimental crop. He hungered to return to Leila’s bed
tonight, but the risk of discovery was high now that Ninian had arrived. He was
too damned tired to keep climbing vines. Besides, finding protectives out here
wasn’t easy. And no matter how Leila protested, he didn’t dare risk a child
while a hangman’s noose hung over his head.
He needed
the peace of growing things to settle his confusion.
Hurrying
around the cottage, he stopped cold at the sight of Griffith sitting in the
middle of his field, a pile of turnip tops in his fists.
Rage and
panic roared in Dunstan’s ears. How many of the plants had the boy pulled
up?
He’d
worked a lifetime developing that seed! The plants were irreplaceable.
Dunstan
bit his tongue, stiffened his back, and marched into the field to investigate.
“Problem?”
he asked without expression.
Griffith
raised a blank countenance. “I’m weeding, as you told me to do.”
“I
trusted you to know the difference between weeds and crop.” The boy wasn’t
dumb. Had he pulled up the plants in anger?
“And if I
don’t? Will you send me away?” Griffith demanded.
Dunstan
had been planning to send him to Drogo when he left for London. Now he took a
deep breath, capped his anger and impatience, and sat down in the middle of the
field with his son. “I told you, I’m no good at being a father. You have to
spell out what’s bothering you in simple terms I can understand. You’re my son.
That doesn’t change if you pull up a whole field of turnips. What’s wrong?”
“You’re
planning on going to London without me. I heard you.”
“I’m
planning on leaving you somewhere safe while I look for a murderer,” Dunstan
explained.
“You
never wanted me,” Griffith interrupted with a cry of protest. “I’m just an
expense to you.”
Dunstan
didn’t welcome this irrationality when he already had more problems on his
plate than he could handle. Children had damned bad timing. Dunstan propped his
head in his hands and stared at the dirt. “Celia didn’t want you. You
know that. It’s hard for women. And your mother didn’t want to give you up. I
tried to do what was best.”
Inexplicably,
an image rose in Dunstan’s memory, one of Griffith as a toddler falling down in
his haste to greet him during one of his infrequent visits. Dunstan bit back a
curse of regret. At the time he’d wanted to lift the boy and hug him, but he
had felt too awkward to try. And now the boy was too big to hug and too old to
give his trust easily.
He’d
missed out on the simple love of those early years. He needed to find some way
of making up for it now. “I was young and stupid, but I wanted you. I just
didn’t think I deserved you.”
“You
wanted her more than me,” Griffith interpreted. “Just like you want
these turnips more than anything else. And they’ll die, just like your wife
did.”
Out of
the mouths of babes.
Reaching
over, Dunstan grabbed his son’s hair and tugged him closer. Griffith struggled,
but that only served to hurt him. Dunstan waited until the boy quit resisting
and leaned closer. “Crops aren’t people. They’re important, but not as
important as you. And from now on, you come first. Is that what’s bothering
you?” Dunstan released the boy’s hair, stood up, and pulled Griffith up with
him.
“Lady
Leila will come first,” his son answered flatly. “You’ll send me off to school
so you can have her.”
Ah, one
more reason he needed to stay home and not see Leila. Devil take it.
“I’ll
send you off to school, but not because of the lady.” He needed a drink. He
needed food. He needed his son to believe in him. Dropping his arm around
Griffith’s shoulders, Dunstan steered him toward the house. “I hereby give you
permission to punch my arm if I ignore you, all right? But sending you to
school is for your own good; it’s not ignoring you.”
“I’m a bastard. They’ll laugh at me.”
“You’re
an Ives bastard. The school is well accustomed to us. Besides, I can’t afford
to send you just yet. You’ll have to hoe turnips until I can. So, tell me why
you pulled up the turnips.”
“They
have grubs. I read that Michaelmas daisies prevent grubs.” Griffith still
sounded wary, but he didn’t move from Dunstan’s loose embrace.
“Michaelmas
daisies?” Dunstan imagined a healthy field of turnip greens surrounded by
scented flowers come fall, and despite his exhaustion, he grinned. “I’ll tell
the lady you’re on her side. Maybe she’ll hire you instead of me. The two of
you can plant rhododendrons in the wheat and lavender in the potatoes.”
“You
don’t believe me.” Sullenly, Griffith tried to jerk away.
Dunstan
wrapped his arm around his son’s neck and knuckled his hard head. “Did I say
that? We’ll grow great blooming bouquets out there if we must. Those turnips
are our future, and I’m trusting you to help me with them.”
Griffith
turned to him with a reluctant light in his eyes. “Me? You’ll listen to me?”
“Why not?
You’re my son, aren’t you? Who else would be smart enough?” With a smile, he
shoved the boy toward the house and the tantalizing aroma of roasting beef.
The boy
whooped and ran for the door.
The boy’s
excitement eased some of Dunstan’s hurts, enough to keep him searching for the
right thing for his son.
It would
be a hell of a lot easier if someone would present a scholarly pamphlet on what
the right thing was.
* * *
Following
Griffith through the kitchen door, Dunstan let the boy run ahead as he halted
to investigate the scented letter waiting on the washstand. Opening it, he
scowled at the lavishly scripted invitation to tomorrow night’s dinner. Leila
might as well offer temptation on a silver platter. An entire evening watching
her breasts pushed up for viewing but not touching—the damned woman knew how to
drive a man to his knees. A week ago he would have resisted without a qualm.
Now . . .
He threw
the invitation down to follow the sound of voices. To Dunstan’s surprise, Ewen,
his younger brother, sat sprawled on the settle before the fire, the gears of
the kitchen clock spread about his feet while Griffith watched him with
absorption.
“What the
devil are you doing?” Dunstan demanded, pouring a mug of ale before Martha
could fetch one for him.
“Showing
Griffith how to fix clocks.” Ewen cleaned a gear with an oily rag and, with
intense focus, sharpened a prong.
“You rode
all the way out here to show him how to fix clocks? Have the lot of you decided
I can’t survive on my own?”
Surprised,
Ewen looked up from his task. “Why would we do that? You’re more adept at
surviving than all of us put together.”
Mollified,
Dunstan threw his leg over a bench and sat down. “Damn right. So now tell me
again why you’re here.”
“To learn
more about canal locks. I needed to see if the one in Northumberland could use
the same kind of gears they use here, or if we need to design a new system.”
Ewen handed Griffith a knife and let the boy screw one part to another. “I’ve
invented a better method of opening the locks, but the gears I’ve found aren’t
strong enough.”
Since the
nearest canal was fifty miles from here, Dunstan figured Drogo was behind the
side trip, but he wouldn’t argue the point. Ewen lived in a future world of his
own imagining, when he wasn’t charming women into bed, but he had a level head
when he applied it. “Can’t help you there. I can provide you with turnips and
perfumes, but not gears.”
“Perfumes?”
Ewen lifted a handsome black eyebrow, then a wicked grin spread across his
face. “There’s a girl at home who would enjoy perfume.”
“Malcolm
perfume,” Dunstan warned. “And Leila would have to meet your lady friend before
she could create one for her. She’s experimenting and would consider it a favor
if you asked for one for yourself.”
Ewen’s
eyes immediately narrowed. “Malcolm? I thought you were planting turnips, not
consorting with the lady.”
Pretending
he was busy working on the clock and not listening, Griffith earnestly applied
his knife to the screw. Dunstan wasn’t fooled. He tilted his head to indicate
his son and didn’t take up the argument. “You’d probably be better at helping
her than I am. She’s setting up a distillery to use once I have the gardens in
place.”
“A
distillery!” Ewen’s eyes lit with interest. “For perfumes?”
“For
scents. I think the perfumes are mixed later.” So, he wasn’t being entirely
truthful. He wasn’t lying either. He just wanted Leila to have an opportunity
to experiment on Ewen. His brother always appeared cheerful and carefree, but
there was far more to Ewen than met the eye. Would Leila be able to discern
that?
Did he
really want to know? The idea of a woman who could uncover one’s deepest,
darkest secrets was altogether frightening.
“I could
spare another day,” Ewen agreed. “Do you think the lady would let me take a
look at her distillery? Perhaps I could make a few suggestions.”
Smack
into the trap he fell. Trying not to show his satisfaction, Dunstan nodded.
“I’ll send a note. We’ll see.”
To make
Leila happy, he could wait one more day.
Leila
smiled in pleasure as the three Ives males strode into her parlor. It was pure
fate that had led Ewen here just in time for her dinner party. She desperately
needed to speak with Dunstan, but she realized he might not have come without
Ewen.
She’d
hesitated about inviting Griffith, but this was a rural gathering. His social
education shouldn’t be neglected as his father’s had been.
Heads
swiveled as the men entered. Several of her male guests gravitated in her
direction, some in her defense, others out of self-protection, she suspected.
Looking over the company from his imposing height, Dunstan scowled at their
antics, then offered a polite nod to Ninian. So, he wasn’t totally hopeless. He
only despised idiots.
Smiling
at that realization, Leila turned her attention to the other two late arrivals.
Ewen surprised her by beaming with good cheer at her appraisal. She rather
thought a charming Ives a contradiction in terms.
The boy
stood near his father’s side, and Leila admired the way Dunstan squeezed his
son’s shoulder reassuringly. The obstinate man was as terrified in this setting
as Griffith, but he refused to show it.
If she
actually carried a child, it was comforting to know its father was a good man.
Taking
the responsibility of social arbiter firmly in hand, she advanced on her new
guests as if they were royalty. “How marvelous that you could come,” she
trilled. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She offered her hand to Ewen and
batted her lashes at Dunstan. “You must introduce me, sir. I’ve been all that’s
impatient to meet the brother who captures lightning.”
Dunstan
scowled at her foolery, but he performed the introductions with the expertise
he must have been taught at his mother’s knee. The man wasn’t untrained, just
contrary, Leila reflected, offering him her best smile. She felt a heartbeat of
triumph at his startled but softening demeanor.
“I must
introduce this charming young man to a friend of mine.” With skill, she
separated Griffith from his all-male family. Divide and conquer was a
tried-and-true tactic.
She
introduced him to one of her younger neighbors and left the two young people in
easy conversation amid the adult whispers flying about their heads.
Turning
back to the doorway, she noted Dunstan had already appropriated a glass of
brandy from her butler, and Ewen had gravitated to the prettiest young woman in
the room. Good, keep the one occupied while she took care of the other. Dunstan
Ives was easily the most fascinating man here, and despite their wariness, not
one of her female guests had failed to notice his impressive physique.
Although
she preferred to pull him aside and keep him to herself, she had promised to
train him in better social manners. All he really needed was to relax.
“He’s
shy,” she whispered into the ear of a baronet’s sister, who was nearly gawking.
“Talk to him about your horses.”
“I
couldn’t,” the girl whispered back, horrified. “He’s terrifying.”
“He’s terrified,”
Leila corrected. “If you know anything at all of turnips, he would be forever
grateful.” Firmly, she steered the girl in Dunstan’s direction.
“Turnips?”
Leila
didn’t give her a chance to question more. “Miss Trimble, the Honorable Mr.
Dunstan Ives. Miss Trimble has one of the finest stables in the area, sir. She
knows all about horse breeding.” All right, so mentioning anything so indecent
as breeding was inappropriate, but she couldn’t help it. The man needed to be
jolted out of his self-centeredness. The young lady’s gasp of horror ought to
bring out the protective Dunstan.
It did.
He immediately looked sympathetic. “My brother is interested in developing his
stable,” he said smoothly, giving Leila one final glare before turning his
attention to the crimson-faced girl. “Perhaps you could give me some pointers.”
She’d
known she could rely on him. The man had “responsibility” engraved on his
forehead. Now, to other matters.
“He’s a
murderer,” Sir Bryan Trimble hissed as Leila drifted to his side. “You place us
all in grave danger by dealing with the likes of him.”
On her
scale of importance, the young baronet did not register higher than an ant, but
he might make a good test subject. Fair hair thinning, jowls already forming,
he had the air of a man who considered himself to be the height of rural
society. He would be looking for a wife to add to his consequence. Leila smiled
and patted his arm. “You are so kind to think of our welfare. With men like
yourself about, I feel quite safe. I’ve been testing new scents from my flower
garden. Would you care to try one?”
Eagerness
replaced his disapproval. “Of course, my lady, anything to please you.”
The man
she would really like to try her perfume on was Ewen Ives, but he was much more
complex than the man on her arm. Start simply, she decided.
She
escorted the baronet to her laboratory, and he watched in perplexity while she
mixed scents and chatted. If he’d thought she’d brought him here for a bit of
wooing, he was sadly disappointed, but he had the courtesy not to show it.
Perhaps
she ought to teach Dunstan such manners.
Then
again, she rather liked the surly Ives just the way he was. Smiling at that
thought, Leila added a hint of rosemary to her concoction, then tested the
fragrance. Raw, but she didn’t have time to let it age.
She
offered her guest the bottle into which she’d poured the fragrance. “Would you
care to test it?”
Before
the baronet agreed or disagreed, a shadow dimmed the candlelight, and Dunstan
loomed in the doorway. No scowl hinted at his thoughts as he propped his big
shoulder against the wall, crossed his legs at the ankle, and lifted a brandy
glass to his lips. “You should invite the rest of your guests for the evening’s
entertainment,” he advised.
Everything
that was feminine inside her went pitty-pat and melted at the smoldering look
he turned in her direction.
“I cannot
offer every guest a perfume of his or her own,” she said sweetly. “And Bryan is
a special friend. Perhaps, if you’re very nice, I’ll prepare a scent for you,”
she teased.
Not
liking the loss of her attention, the baronet grabbed the bottle and tilted a
puddle of fragrance into his palm, then slapped it to his sagging jowls.
Unwittingly, he riveted both Leila’s and Dunstan’s attention with that gesture.
“A
stable!” he cried in fascination. “It smells like my favorite London stable.”
Leila
sniffed the fragrant aroma. “Manure is an honest smell, sir,” she asserted
cautiously. The scent seared her nostrils, and to her astonishment, she
recognized the familiar sensation of the room spinning. Excitement and fear
assailed her as she grasped the worktable to steady herself.
The
laboratory faded into a stable, an expensive one. High ceilings, a carriage
with prancing horses . . . A woman’s laugh. Familiar, hauntingly
so. Fury welled, strangled by helplessness and humiliation—not the woman’s
emotion, but that of the man she mocked . . .
“Leila,
are you all right?” Strong hands gripped her arm, gently retrieving her from
emotional torment.
She
blinked and glanced around. No stable. No woman. She leaned into Dunstan,
letting his heat and strength ease her confusion. The baronet merely looked
puzzled.
“Did you
know Celia Ives?” she demanded of the young man, having no idea why she asked.
Behind
her, Dunstan stiffened, but the laughter still echoed inside her
head—tauntingly familiar laughter. Celia had been a vain, shallow creature who
enjoyed flaunting her beauty and humiliating those she thought unworthy of her.
A rural baronet would be an object of ridicule to her, however suited to her
country origins he might be.
“I may
have met her in London,” the baronet answered warily.
“In a
stable?” Leila replied, then mentally slapped herself. She was too new at this.
Had she really felt this young man’s anger and humiliation? Or did her perfumes
just give her headaches and strange notions?
The
baronet’s obvious discomfort answered her question, even when he refused to do
so. Bowing, he made ready to depart. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I’d
rather not discuss the dead.”
Before
Leila could throttle the fool, Dunstan intruded. “Poorly done, sir. The lady
gave you a gift. The least you can do is offer honesty in return.”
The
baronet looked startled, rubbed frantically at the smell on his face, and
appeared ready to bolt.
“I’d
offer you my soap,” Dunstan said in an effort to sound sympathetic, “but the
lady believes I smell like dirt.”
Leila
almost giggled at the baronet’s distress. He glanced at her, then at Dunstan,
and without another word, raced from the room.
“That was
unkind,” she chided. “I do not think you smell like dirt any more than I think
Sir Bryan smells like a stable.”
Dunstan
slanted a glance down at her. “What was that about Celia?”
“I don’t
know.” Leila tried to recall the moment, but it was already fading now that the
scent of straw and manure had departed. “I don’t understand what is happening
to me. I thought I heard her laughing, and it felt as if Sir Bryan was the one
she laughed at.”
Dunstan
snorted. “Undoubtedly so. He’s just the sort she would humiliate. If you heard
Celia, then you must be a witch.”
In
wonder, Leila tried on the appellation like a much-desired cloak. A witch.
Maybe she
was.
She
didn’t understand the how or why of it, but joy infused her as an immense world
of opportunity opened before her.
She could
hear and see people who weren’t there.
Her
mother would be so proud.
Dunstan watched Leila’s progress through the parlor in the aftermath of
her interminable dinner. He’d sat on the edge of his chair throughout the meal,
fretting over her decision to include him among her party, while her damned
guests ignored him and chattered about her perfume experiments as if they were
some new parlor game.
He had to
admire Leila’s determination in going after what she wanted, even as he worried
every single minute she spent experimenting on other men. What if others
reacted like Lord John? What if she stumbled onto some deep, dark secret in the
same way she’d stumbled onto the baronet’s memory of a stable?
Dunstan
had attempted to pin down Sir Bryan and question him about Celia, but the man
had given his excuses and fled. Did he dare trust Leila’s strange perception
and harass the man for more answers?
He
couldn’t imagine Celia spending time with a mere baronet—a rural one at that,
admittedly, though, she’d had a fancy for fine horseflesh.
The vicar
gazed at him as if awaiting an answer to a question, and Dunstan stumbled back
into the conversation, muttering something inane as Leila led Ewen away. His
heart thudded off-kilter at the picture of Leila and Ewen together.
“I’m of
the opinion that plants have male and female parts as animals do,” Dunstan
said, intruding on the vicar’s monologue against the “unnatural” practices of
scientific sheep breeding. “Plants breed just as indiscriminately as cats, if
left untended. Excuse me, I must speak with my brother.”
Leaving
the vicar speechless, Dunstan attempted to veer behind a gaggle of ladies and
escape the room. With a rustle of silks and satins, the ladies swung en masse
to surround him.
“Is it
true, sir,” one of the bolder matrons demanded, “that bagwigs have gone out of
fashion in London? I cannot persuade my Harvey to part with his.”
One of
the younger women tittered and hid behind her fan. The older ones watched him
expectantly.
Feeling
like an insect pinned to cloth and framed behind glass, Dunstan grimaced,
rolled his fingers into fists, and said the first thing that came to mind.
“Wigs attract roaches, madam. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
He
escaped amid gasps and flapping fans. No doubt he’d said the wrong thing again.
Why did the fool women ask such questions if they didn’t want his opinion?
Stretching
his shoulders against the constraint of his coat, Dunstan eluded the rest of
Leila’s guests and escaped in the direction of her laboratory. He should ask
her to create a magic potion to make him comatose if he was to parade around
London seeking Celia’s killer. He wasn’t cut out to be courtly.
He burst
through the dairy door in time to catch Ewen and Leila laughing intimately, and
the ugly serpent of jealousy coiled and spat in his chest. He wanted to wrap a
possessive arm around the lady’s slender waist, kiss her lovely nape, and
defiantly mark his claim.
He had no
right to do any such thing.
A subtle
scent of fire and smoke and things he couldn’t name wrapped around him as both
dark heads turned in his direction, still laughing. “I take it Ewen’s scent is
that of a clown?” Dunstan asked.
“Your
brother has a very charismatic soul,” Leila said playfully, appropriating
Dunstan’s arm and leaning against him as if she belonged there. Her powdered
hair brushed his jaw, and her swaying skirts wrapped around his leg, enfolding
him in their exotic scent.
Dunstan
watched Ewen’s reaction to their familiarity. His younger brother—charismatic
soul that he was—had a way with women. He’d been born flirting with the
midwife.
Ewen
merely grinned and winked at Dunstan. “I think she means I’m damned to hell and
is too polite to say it.”
The
subject of hell was much too uncomfortable for a man accused of wife murder.
Dunstan shrugged and tried to pretend he didn’t have a ravishing Malcolm’s
breast pressing into his arm. “Have you examined the distillery?”
“He says
he can improve upon the design,” Leila answered for Ewen. “By this time next
year, I could have my own rose distillations,” she said with a sigh of ecstasy.
“I’ll
sketch something for you,” Ewen promised. “May I have this fragrance? I rather
like it.”
“It
smells of wizardry,” Leila acknowledged. “Fitting for a mechanical genius.”
“Wizardry
does not have a smell,” Dunstan reminded her.
“I think
she means I smell like grease,” Ewen said cheerfully, taking the stoppered
bottle she offered. “But I like the smell. I’ll test its appeal on the ladies.”
He
slipped the vial into his coat pocket and strode off whistling before Dunstan
had the presence of mind to object. He didn’t know if he wanted to object, not
with Leila hanging on his arm.
“Will you
stay tonight?” she whispered, studying him from beneath thick lashes. When he
did not answer, she released his arm and gravitated toward the table.
Dunstan
felt large and oafish in her slender presence, but he knew it was her elegant
silk and powdered curls that distanced him. He told himself he needed that
distance; otherwise he was a doomed man.
“I don’t
think it’s wise of me to stay,” he said carefully.
Moving
vials into order, not looking at him, Leila nodded. “Could we
not . . . have a special place? Somewhere where we could
just be us?”
Dunstan
groaned at the temptation she dangled before him. Knowing she felt as he did
would bring him to his knees faster than tears or promises. He could resist
histrionics, but he had no experience with wistful desire. “It will only make
matters worse,” he admitted, praying that she understood without an
explanation.
“I
thought men . . . I thought it was easier for you.” She lit a
candlewick and an odor of vanilla wafted on a breeze. Tense, she studied him,
her dark eyes wary. “Do men not take mistresses and discard them with abandon?”
“Not this
man,” he snapped, his resistance fraying.
She
looked unhappy, as if he’d confirmed what she already knew. “It doesn’t seem
quite fair,” she murmured. “Half the population of London flits from bed to bed
without a care. Lovemaking is a mere entertainment for them.”
“And
London is where you think I belong?” he asked dryly.
She shook
her head in a flurry of powder and curls. “No. I’m just confused. I know you
desire me. And I desire you, as I have never desired another man. It’s a new
and frightening experience for me. I cannot understand why it is wrong to act
on our desires.”
Dunstan
rubbed his hand over his face and wondered if he was an even bigger fool than
he thought. He could have the lady in his bed. Why deny himself the pleasure?
But he
was beyond the point of being satisfied just to have her in his bed. He needed
far more of her than that, far more than he could ask of her, given his
circumstances.
The
knowledge that he wanted more than a brief affair clawed his insides raw.
“I’m an
accused murderer with no prospects for the future, Leila. All I can offer you
is a fine romp in bed and a bastard in your belly. I’ll be leaving for London
shortly. I suggest you think hard about what you’re asking of both of us.”
“I have
thought hard.” She leaned against the table and hugged her elbows as if she
held herself back. “I suggest you rethink if you believe you can leave
for London without me.”
The idea
of tarnishing her reputation with his appalled him. He couldn’t take her to
London with him.
But
succumbing to the desire to possess her one more time, Dunstan bent to kiss her
defiant lips. The taste of Leila’s eager tongue soothed his battered patience,
stripped away his cold restraint, and nearly undid him.
Before he
could capitulate to his baser nature right here in her laboratory, with all her
guests outside, Dunstan reluctantly stepped away, leaving her gripping the
table behind her and looking stunned.
“We have
no future,” he reminded her, “and you can’t go to London with me.”
She
merely stared, waiting, her kiss-stung lips moist and beckoning, her breasts
rising and falling with the passion he’d provoked.
He could
no more resist her temptation than turnips could resist rising to the sun.
“Tonight, in the grotto,” he agreed, then swung on his heel to go in search of
a stiff drink.
Leaving
Leila contemplating the empty place where he’d stood, her heart pounding, her
head spinning.
She was
on the brink of discovery. A precious, valuable gift was hers to explore.
A child
could be growing inside her, a child that both terrified and thrilled her.
She had
everything she’d ever wanted at her fingertips. Why, then, was it not enough?
Why must she seek out an Ives who made it evident he merely desired her body
and no more?
She
wanted to discuss her discoveries with the man who had valued the talent she’d
ignored because it came too easily. She wanted days and weeks to design a
garden she could share with the man who could best appreciate it.
All her
gifts were meaningless without that someone to share them.
Looking
at the empty beaker she held, Leila abruptly set it aside and hastened back to
the gathering in her parlor to see if Dunstan had left.
The
parlor was full of people yet empty of Ives.
And she
realized that loneliness was far worse when she was denied the presence of the
one person in the entire world who could understand the secrets of her heart.
Having
left Ewen taking apart Leila’s distillery and Griffith perusing her library,
Dunstan sat on an overturned wooden pail in the midst of the leathery green
leaves of his turnip bed to clear his muddled mind from an overdose of socializing.
With his evening vest and coat unfastened, his fancy dress shoes caked in mud,
he lifted a mug of malt to his mouth and drank deeply.
Lily
waited for him in a magical grotto where she would ease his aching desire.
Leila
wanted him to take her to London.
He
couldn’t bear harming another woman. He couldn’t let a woman come between him
and his son again. Need warred with responsibility.
Dunstan
wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve and glanced around at his green companions.
“You’ll make some young sheep a good fodder,” he told them. “Better fodder than
I am,” he continued stoically. “Sam Johnson must have been talking about me
when he said, If a man don’t cry when his father dies, ’tis proof he’d
rather have a turnip than his father.”
He raised
his mug to the splinter of new moon. “I don’t want my son to prefer turnips to
me,” he told it. He wasn’t drunk, he knew, but who cared if he made an ass of
himself out here? His little green friends didn’t. A man could think straighter
with a mug of whiskey and silence, and for once in his misbegotten life, he
intended to think before he stepped off the deep end.
“Of all
the men she knows, why would she want me?” The one man she couldn’t have, he
knew. “Woman’s at best a contradiction still,” he quoted, but the turnips
didn’t respond to his erudition. He sprawled his long legs out in front of him
and contemplated the real reason he sat in this field when a beautiful woman
awaited him.
“I don’t
need witchy Malcolms telling me things I don’t want to know.” He sipped more
carefully, waiting for his green friends to argue that one. They didn’t.
“She’ll
make me as daft as she is,” he agreed with the night breeze. “Manure! She
smelled manure and heard ghosts laughing.” He scowled and drained the mug.
She’d heard Celia laughing. Could he live with that? What else might she see or
hear?
“Problem
is . . .” He let the statement dangle. “Problem is, I don’t
think I can leave without her.”
The moon
didn’t howl in disbelief. His green friends didn’t turn their backs on him,
although he thought they shuddered a little. He shuddered with them. Or maybe
his head spun. Leila had that effect on him. He could control turnips and steer
his own path, but he couldn’t control Leila any more than he could steer the
stars.
“She only
wants me to share her bed,” he told the breeze in confidence. He wanted the
breeze to tell him to go ahead and seduce her. Instead, it spoke with Drogo’s
voice, reminding him of what he could not forget. “She can’t have babes, she
says. Anyway, it’s not as if I’d have to support one,” he argued. “She could
afford to wrap it in silk batting and hire it the best teachers. But she’s
barren.”
His green
friends laughed at him. Malcolms were never barren.
Rising to
stand legs akimbo in the middle of the field he’d thought would be his future,
Dunstan propped his hands on his hips and shouted at the moon, “Am I supposed
to stew in my own damned juices?”
The moon
didn’t reply.
London
and the search for Celia’s killer loomed before him. He had to clear his name,
if only for his son’s sake.
And to
protect Leila.
Leila.
She waited for him, a beautiful woman offering answers he wasn’t prepared to
accept.
He could
no more leave her waiting than the moon could stop from setting. He didn’t
think he could prevent Leila from going to London with him either, not when it
was what they both wanted, even if it wasn’t wise.
Perhaps
he could publish his own quote: Wisdom goes out the door when women walk
through it.
Floating naked on the quietly bubbling water of the grotto’s pool,
watching the waning moon through the opening above, Leila was thankful for the
peace of this private place.
Her hair
drifted like seaweed on the clear water. The night breeze carried the country
fragrances of hay and someone’s chimney smoke. The smoke reminded her of a cozy
winter’s night. Relaxing, giving in to her senses, Leila let the vision of a
crackling kitchen fire rise behind her closed eyes. Instantly, she smelled
roasting chestnuts and heard her mother laughing merrily with Cook while
discussing the newest babe’s first mashed potatoes. Filled with comforting
sights and sounds, her vision enticed her to embrace the changes ahead—a baby
of her own to love and hold. Contentment erased some of the turmoil the evening
had stirred.
The
vision popped as another scent intruded, and her heart beat faster. She wasn’t
surprised when a shadow appeared on the mossy bank above her.
“Join
me,” she invited, not caring how Dunstan took the invitation. She needed his
strength tonight.
He didn’t
hesitate for long. She watched him drop his coat and vest upon the rocks, then
sit to remove his boots. Dunstan Ives was probably the most challenging man
she’d ever met. She respected his intelligence far too much to manipulate him
now, but given his earlier words and action, she had a strong notion he would
react negatively to her news.
A little
voice said she had no reason to tell him. She didn’t know anything of a
certainty. Ninian could be wrong.
She knew
what would happen if she didn’t speak. The desire between them was like a
palpable flame drawing them together as Dunstan slipped into the water. Her
nipples already stood at attention, and her womanly parts tightened in
expectation.
The same
womanly parts that could be harboring a tiny Ives seed, growing with every
passing minute.
For all
her experience and sophistication, she was as frightened as any young maiden at
the changes that might be happening within her.
She heard
his splashing as he approached, curled her arms around his brawny neck when he
caught her waist. Weightless, she lifted her head for his kiss, and he obliged.
She could
feel Dunstan inside her with no more touching than his tongue to hers. His arms
tightened, his big hands caressed her wet skin, their lips melded, and their
tongues twined. The faeries that dwelt here sang in harmony.
A shadow
passed between them, and somewhere deep within her womb an old soul found safe
harbor and a new life quickened.
She
carried Dunstan’s child. Leila knew it with the instincts of her ancestors.
Dunstan
gently carried her from the warm water to the mossy bank. Steam rose around
them, yet she shivered as his broad frame covered her. Naked and inches apart,
they could no more stop what would happen next than a nightingale could change
its song.
“You’re
bewitching me again, aren’t you?” he murmured, pressing kisses down her cheek.
“Am I? I
didn’t mean to—” Fascinated by such a notion, Leila decided that if bewitching
Dunstan was her one and only gift, it might actually be enough.
“I didn’t
mean to do this again, not until my name is clear.” His mouth located the
sensitive place behind her ear.
She
sighed at the luxury of this ache he created. The moss beneath her was softer
than feathers. She smoothed her fingers over his muscled chest and slid them
downward. She didn’t want to stop now. What she had to tell him could wait.
“I’ve thought about it, Dunstan, just as you asked. If there’s no future for
us, let us have the present.”
To her
joy, he didn’t argue. He touched his forehead to hers in a gesture of
surrender. “I’m trusting you to know your own mind. You have no idea what a
leap of faith that is for me.”
Leila dug
her fingers into his silken hair, absorbing the strength of his heartbeat where
he leaned against her. “We’re neither of us children any longer. There’s no
harm in what we do here.”
“There
can be if we bring a child into the world,” he said in reply, slipping downward
to address her breasts.
Leila
gasped as Dunstan tugged delicately with his mouth, and a river of desire ran
into her womb. She tried to part her legs, but his knees held them firmly
together. Terrified that he would deny her again, she responded without
thinking. “It doesn’t matter.” She clutched the solid flesh of his upper arms,
her fingers not quite circling them while she tried to think and talk and melt
all at the same time.
He took
one last tug and reluctantly halted, gazing down at her with wary eyes. “It
doesn’t matter?”
He knew.
He was too much a part of the earth not to know. Knowing wasn’t the hardest
part, though. Leila tugged at his arms, trying to force his mouth upward, to
hers. “Talk later,” she protested. “I need you inside me right now.”
Accepting
the inevitable with masculine fortitude, he didn’t argue. With lingering kisses
and slow caresses, he opened her, explored what was his to claim, and entered
her with all the care she needed right now, with a care that had her weeping
helplessly even as she cried out in rapture.
With the
fatalism of the doomed, Dunstan closed his eyes and poured his life’s fluids
deep inside the woman he’d made his in some primal manner he had yet to
understand. Briefly, the pleasure of his release overrode all else. Emptying
his mind with his seed, he collapsed against Leila’s generous curves, kissed
her throat, and rolling onto the mossy bed, pulled her on top so he needn’t
suffer the torment of separation just yet.
Letting
pleasure wash through him, he absorbed the sensation of molding his hands to
Leila’s soft buttocks. He nipped her shoulders with kisses, trying to cling to
mindlessness. The press of her fertile belly against his abdomen tortured him
into awareness.
The
possibility of having a woman like Leila in his bed every night exceeded any
dream he’d ever allowed himself, trespassing on the realm of the impossible. He
was a practical man not inclined to fantasy. He tried not to think about what
she hadn’t said, but the little green worms gnawed deeper. He had to know.
“Tell me
now,” he demanded.
“Ninian
says it’s a girl,” she whispered. “You needn’t worry about raising a son.
Malcolms can take care of girls.”
Dunstan
wanted to laugh out loud at the outrageousness of her declaration. He wasn’t a
simpleton. He knew it was bloody well too soon to know if she carried a child
for certain. He knew children were easily lost in these first months. To
actually declare the sex of the child while it was no more than a sprouting
seed bordered on the insane, not to mention the illogical.
But
because it was Leila, he didn’t laugh. He didn’t try to imagine a faerie
girl-child in a household of brutish male Ives either. One giant leap at a
time.
Eyes
closed, he let the silken glide of her skin flow over him. “I don’t suppose
Ninian knows if our daughter will be as beautiful as you?”
He’d
startled her, he could tell. Opening one eyelid and peering out, Dunstan caught
the laughter welling up and curving Leila’s lovely lips. A rare treasure,
indeed, was this black-haired Malcolm. Now, if he only knew what to do with
her.
She
sprawled across his chest, dug her fingers into his hair, and covered his
stubbled jaw with kisses. “You’re a lunatic. I have found the only Ives in
existence who is insane enough to understand a Malcolm. How did this happen?”
Dunstan
leaned his head back and opened his eyes fully to stare at the sliver of moon
above her coal-black curls. A trick of the light sparkled starlight in her
hair, and for the moment he believed in faeries.
She felt
so real against him, so soft and hot and perfectly formed to ease his needs. If
they never left the cave, he would be content.
“Fact of
life?” he guessed. “Fluke of nature?” He tried telling himself that Ives men
didn’t have daughters, but that didn’t work any better. The woman in his arms
might misunderstand or confuse things, but she wouldn’t lie.
The woman
in question nibbled his beak of a nose. “You’re avoiding thinking about the
child, aren’t you? You’re very good at shutting out what you don’t want to
know.”
“I figure
you and Ninian and the rest of your witchy family will think about it for me. A
man has few choices once the seed is planted.” He realized he’d spent a great
deal of time feeling helpless and out of control since Leila had entered his
life. One more event over which he had no say seemed a natural state of
existence. In a way, lack of control had a liberating effect.
She bit a
little harder, and Dunstan avoided her sharp teeth by sitting up and
positioning her on his lap, although he wasn’t completely ready to take her
yet. The thought of an Ives girl child had shaken him. He couldn’t remember an
Ives ever having a girl.
She
watched him through worried eyes. “Are you taking this seriously, or just
humoring me?”
Dunstan
narrowed his eyes so he could see only the shadows of the cave and not the full
globes of the breasts pressed into him. That didn’t help his concentration any.
“Which would you prefer?” he asked, playing for time.
“You
believe me, don’t you?”
“I
believe it’s too soon to know, that it’s impossible to tell, and that Ninian is
an addlepated lackwit who ought to mind her own business.”
She
pinched him beneath the arm, and Dunstan swatted her hand away.
He opened
his eyes fully and drank in the beautiful wanton pleasuring his lap, and terror
took root alongside joy in his heart. “I have nothing but a bog and my name to
offer you,” he said simply. “How can I rob you of everything for which you’ve
worked so hard? As Adonis would say, it’s a wee bit difficult to do the right
thing when you cannot ken what it is.”
She
wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned her head against his shoulder.
Dunstan held her there, reveling in her slender curves, wishing she were his to
wake up next to every morn.
With
Celia’s ghost haunting him, how could he ever trust himself with another woman?
What if he lost his temper and hurt Leila or the babe? And how could he ask her
to give up her garden for him?
They were
so wrong for each other that even the gods in heaven must be shaking their
heads in dismay. He had nothing to offer but guilt and disgrace, and she would
sacrifice everything if she took his name.
He’d
known terror a time or two in his life, but nothing to compare with what faced
him now. He knew what duty and responsibility as defined by society called him
to do. And he knew that way lay disaster.
No matter
what he did, he would hurt her or their child.
“We can
wait,” she whispered. “It’s too soon, as you say. Ninian could be wrong.”
He
grunted in disbelief. “Aside from the fact that the blasted she-devil is never
wrong, and that we knew full well we planted the seed beneath a full moon, how
do you see it?”
“I’ve
never had a child,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I’ve rocked my little
sisters and cousins, felt their milky breath against my cheek, listened to
their baby cries and laughter, and never even thought to have a child. I
planned on being the elderly aunt to my sisters’ children, admiring and admonishing
from afar. I’m rather taken with that role.”
A new
fear yawned deep in his gut, and Dunstan clenched her tighter. He didn’t doubt
that Malcolms had the power to make an unborn child go away if they wished. He
wouldn’t believe it of them, but he knew they could. He quit breathing, afraid
to answer her.
“I’m
terrified,” she whispered. “Women die in childbirth, and I’m not ready to die.
I don’t want to grow huge as a mountain so I can’t bend over my laboratory
table.”
Dunstan
sought words of reassurance, but before he could find a way to convince her
that she wanted his bastard, she spoke again.
“But it’s
not too soon for me to know that your child’s heart beats within me, and as
terrifying as it sounds, I desperately want to keep her. Will you let me?”
The breath
practically exploded from him, and he hugged her harder in relief. “A child
belongs with its mother—and its father.” One more reason he must clear his
name.
“I will
never deny you your fatherly rights,” Leila said with a seductive smile, then
distracted him by burying a kiss at the base of his throat and wriggling her
bottom where he needed her.
That was
the least of their problems, Dunstan figured, before lust claimed his brain and
all rational thought fled.
“Li-li-li-lyyyy!”
a childish voice sang through several octaves as Dunstan escorted Leila across
her front portal a little later that evening.
She
smiled at the half dozen little girls in long, frilly nightdresses who spilled
down the stairs as if they’d been watching for her. The youngest one stubbed
her toe and fell down. The eldest matter-of-factly picked her up and set her on
her feet. The lot of them gazed up in awe at Dunstan—who stood frozen, panicked
as a hunted stag.
“You
promised us a bedtime story,” one of the girls cried. “We want the one about
Cinderella.”
The
toddler stuck her thumb in her mouth, assessed Dunstan with gravity, then
wrapped her free arm around his leg and sleepily pressed her cheek into his
knee.
He turned
to Leila with dark eyes filled with horror, and she bit back a grin.
“What do
I do now?” he whispered.
“Pick her
up and carry her to bed,” she advised. “It’s much too late for any of the
little imps to be up.”
She could
see him working her words through the churning gears of his mighty brain.
Little girls—nurseries—golden curls—
“I’ll
have one like these?”
Panic
tinged his voice, but Leila recognized pride and wonder as well. Amused, she
watched as Dunstan very carefully crouched to pick up the toddler. For a large
man, he was tender and graceful, gathering the sleepy child in the same way he
would lift one of his lambs.
“She
might have dark hair,” she warned. “Most Malcolms don’t, but I’ve always been
the exception.”
He still
looked fairly stunned, but heat warmed his gaze. “Very definitely exceptional,”
he murmured.
The
memory of their earlier lovemaking rose between them, and Leila blushed and
turned away just as Ninian came down the staircase. The dark-haired boy in her
arms had taken apart a large wooden soldier and was industriously putting it
back together again, oblivious of the circle of golden-haired females around
him.
“There
you are,” Ninian called. “I told them they might stay up until you returned.”
Glancing from Dunstan to Leila, she smiled knowingly. “I suppose I should be
glad you returned at all. If you have things to talk about, I’ll settle the
girls into bed for you.”
They
hadn’t even begun to discuss London, much less their future. Fearful that
Dunstan would panic and run, Leila started to suggest they go to their sitting
room. Dunstan surprised her by overriding Ninian’s suggestion.
“The
girls need their bedtime story, and I need to pry Griffith out of the library.
We have to pack. We’ll be leaving for London in the morning.”
Leila
thought she’d like to capture the moment of frozen silence that followed this
announcement and pin it in a picture book for safekeeping. He’d even caught
omniscient Ninian by surprise, but the young man standing in the doorway
farther down the hall held Leila’s attention most forcefully. Griffith looked
in turn startled, proud, and delighted.
She had
no idea how she felt.
“I can
mind Griffith,” Ninian offered. “He is no trouble at all. You and Leila—”
Dunstan
handed his sleepy burden to Leila, then gestured for his son. “He needs to
learn how to go about in company. I’m not much of an example, but I’m all he
has.” Casually, he dropped his hand on Griffith’s shoulder when the boy came to
stand beside him. His son practically beamed with delight at his father’s
recognition.
Leila
searched Dunstan’s rugged face, but though she understood his character, she
could not read his mind. “What of your turnips?” she asked.
“The
turnips will grow without me. And the gardeners know what to do with your
flowers. There are more important things than turnips and roses. I cannot have
a future unless I clear my name, and I have more need to do so now than
before.” He searched her face, waiting for her response.
“It’s the
height of the Season,” she said slowly, watching his eyes. The stubbornness and
determination that made up much of his character overpowered all the other
scents she’d thought to find, leaving her at a loss.
He met
her eyes with a steady gaze. Leila understood he was doing this for her and for
their child, but he wouldn’t force her to come with him. He sought to protect
her reputation and understood the importance of her gardens and her research
here. He placed her desires over his own.
Joy
welled up from deep within her heart and spilled out to curve her lips upward.
He did not demand that she marry him and hand over all her wealth for the
child’s sake. He did not ask that she help him steer through society’s
dangerous shoals. She could stay here and meddle with roses and perfumes to her
heart’s content, and he would not say her nay. He offered her the freedom of
her own decision.
In
appreciation, she offered him the same freedom of choice.
“May I
accompany you?” she asked softly, for his ears alone.
“And all
these?” His gaze fell upon the little girls waiting impatiently for the adults.
“They
shall go with us, as far as the Ives estate. Ninian dislikes London.” She
watched him accept the inevitability of traveling in coaches filled with little
girls. He was a big man, in more ways than the obvious.
With a
look of understanding, Ninian gathered the children and bustled them up the stairs
with promises of an exciting new bedtime story.
A little
shakily, Leila turned to Griffith. If Dunstan could learn to deal with little
Malcolms, she supposed she must learn to deal with young Ives. It seemed her
future would be inextricably entwined with his. The thought both frightened and
delighted her. If all Ives males were as challenging as Dunstan, she would
never have a dull moment. She would certainly never lack company or need
society for amusement.
The boy
watched her with curiosity. She didn’t think an Ives existed who didn’t possess
an avid curiosity.
Her
daughter would be an Ives.
“And you,
Griffith?” she asked the boy. “Will you mind my borrowing your father upon
occasion? In return, I promise to find entertainments you’ll enjoy in the city.”
The boy’s
eyes gleamed in anticipation. “If you would, please? My father hates the city
and will growl and bark the whole time.”
Dunstan
growled and caught the boy by the nape. “I will not,” he barked.
Not in
the least terrorized, Griffith nodded, winked at Leila, and slipped out the
front door, leaving Dunstan and Leila alone.
“Everyone
who is anyone will be in London now,” she warned him.
“Which
should make my task simpler,” he agreed. “Everyone who knew Celia in the last
days of her life will be there. Finding a murderer involves an easier logic
than solving the problem of what we will do after that.”
“We will
go on as we have,” she declared. “Once your name is cleared, no one can
threaten us again.”
He
snorted in disbelief, but she knew his was a cynical nature that must be
convinced. She would show him. They could do this. He could raise turnips and
his son, and she could raise roses and their daughter. She was very good at
managing things.
But the
next days and weeks promised to be a whirlwind, spinning the peaceful life
she’d planned out of control.
Actually,
she rather looked forward to it.
“Your sisters and I explored the inn
where Celia died,” Ninian told Dunstan and Leila over the rattle of the coach
headed for London. The children were traveling in a separate carriage with the
nursemaids, giving the grown-ups peace in which to talk. “It is a very old inn,
with too many ghosts and vibrations to easily tell one from the other.”
Dunstan
crossed his arms and glowered at his sister-in-law. She had maneuvered her way
into Leila’s coach when he’d hoped to have Leila to himself. He’d brought his
gelding. He should have ridden outside—would have, if he’d known he would have
to endure this prattle of ghosts. Two days of traveling in Ninian’s company
might test any doubts he possessed about his self-control.
“If
Celia’s ghost existed, she’d no doubt name me murderer just to give me grief,”
he said in contempt. He didn’t need damned interfering Malcolms cluttering up
his investigation. Did none of them know how to mind their own business?
Leila
tittered, caught his glare, and covered her laughter by looking out the window.
Dunstan
fought back a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know if she was
laughing at him or at Ninian’s fancies. He just liked that she was laughing.
That still didn’t ease his righteous anger at being chaperoned by his
sister-in-law when he wanted Leila alone.
He had a
sneaking suspicion that Malcolms exaggerated their peculiarities for their own
purposes. Women were still women, no matter what unorthodox talents they
harbored.
He
glanced surreptitiously at Leila. Beneath her gray cloak, she wore a glimmer of
blue. She wore colors for him, instead of the widow’s weeds in which she
appeased society. He let the pleasure of that thought relax him as he sat
awkwardly on the narrow carriage seat.
No other
woman had cared to please him. He would do whatever was necessary to return the
favor—such as trusting her strange abilities.
But that
didn’t mean he had to do the same for her cousin. He glared defiantly at
Ninian, waiting for her to utter another asinine observation.
“Felicity
says the desk Celia sat at gave off vibrations that brought to mind a green
stone. Did Celia have any green jewels?” Ninian asked.
“I gave
her jewels in every color of the rainbow,” he admitted. “She would coo and bat
her lashes and wish for red ones, and I’d give her them. And then she’d buy a
green gown and pout until she had something to match. The woman was
insatiable.”
Celia had
never worn blue for him. He would cling to that thought and believe that Leila
and her family meant to help, not harm, no matter how witless their talk of
ghosts and vibrations sounded, or how irritating their meddling.
“Perhaps
she was robbed?” Leila asked from her corner of the carriage.
“I should
think she’d have pawned or sold most of the jewels to keep her London creditors
at bay,” Dunstan argued. “I did not pay her bills.”
“Tracking
her gems is where we should start, then,” Leila decided. “Make a list of where
you bought them and what they looked like.”
The task
gave him something to do besides mentally stripping off Leila’s clothes and
looking for signs that she was increasing with his child, not to mention the
other things he might do once he had her naked.
“Drogo is
in London,” Ninian warned, apropos of nothing. “I shall take the girls with me
to Ives so they won’t be underfoot. Drogo will be happy to have you and
Griffith for company in town, Dunstan.”
He shot
her a look from beneath lowered lids. Damned woman was reading his mind again.
She was telling him that to see Leila naked, he’d have to slip her past his
eagle-eyed brother. The alternative was to find some way around Leila’s scatty
mother to the upper stories of her father’s town house.
He would
have to watch Leila laugh and flirt and not be able to touch her.
In her
corner, Leila wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself and shifted in her
seat. “Dunstan . . .” she warned in low tones.
“Dammit,
I’ll ride outside with Griffith.” How the devil would he live with a woman who
could smell his need for her? He gave the roof a great whacking thump
and threw open the carriage door before the coach could barely grind to a halt.
“They
can’t help themselves,” Ninian said reassuringly as the door slammed shut and
the coach lurched into motion again. “Sex is always uppermost in their minds.
One must simply dig past it to their brains.”
Leila
thought she would like to imitate Dunstan’s glower, except her cousin wouldn’t
heed her any more than she heeded Dunstan. “I cannot imagine how we will find
one murderer in all London,” Leila said, changing the subject. “This is an
impossible mission.”
“Perhaps
so,” Ninian said tranquilly, “but our search will give Dunstan time to become
accustomed to having a family. He’s been alone far too long and fights our
assistance every step of the way. You will be good for him.”
“Only if
we keep Maman and Aunt Stella away from him,” Leila answered. “They will
pry his head off his shoulders once they know he does not intend to marry me.”
“Doesn’t
he?” asked Ninian, opening a book she’d brought with her. “Perhaps you ought to
mix another perfume for him if you believe that.”
Leila
entwined her fingers and squeezed. Marrying Dunstan would cost her the land and
freedom she’d waited years to gain.
He didn’t
always agree with her, but he hadn’t insisted that she marry him. She would
trust that they were in agreement on the subject.
But that
didn’t mean anyone else in their respective families would honor their
decision.
Dunstan
thought he might explode and save everyone the quandary of what to do with him.
Pacing
the worn planks of the hall outside the rooms they’d taken at an inn on the
road to London, he tried to appear to be a civilized gentleman and not a crazed
beast, trapped by fear and anxiety.
Girlish
giggles and the murmured remonstrations of an assortment of nannies and
nursemaids seeped through the walls of the rooms to his right. On his left, the
rise and fall of feminine voices, light steps, and laughter identified Leila
and Ninian and their maids. He was surrounded by females and about to lose
every iota of control he’d ever possessed.
Leila had
looked green by the time they’d reached the inn. Nervousness ate at his
stomach. He knew nothing about women who were breeding. He could vaguely remember
Bessie flinging ribbons and hay at his head when she’d discovered her
condition. She’d burst into hysterical tears every time he looked at her for
some months after, and he’d looked often because she’d grown a splendid bosom.
Then he’d gone off to school and knew no more about the episode until he’d
returned to a squalling red-faced baby boy.
He’d been
pretty well terrified then, too, but he had been little more than a child
himself, and no one had expected him to be responsible. Or even reasonable.
A door
creaked open, and Dunstan glanced up hopefully. He needed to talk with Leila.
She could settle some of his panic simply by telling him she was feeling fine.
He
breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her slipping through the doorway at
the end of the hall. He waited for her to look in his direction, praying she
had some notion of where they could go to be alone. He shared his room with
Griffith.
She
hurried toward him, her light slippers tapping against the floorboards, her
blue skirts swaying. “Thunderclouds will form in here any minute now if you
don’t stop your pacing,” she scolded. “I’ve never known a man who could boil
air as you do.”
“How am I
to rest when you looked as green as my turnips?”
Pleased
surprise lit her expression. “Are you worried about me? I’m sorry. I did not
know. I’m quite fine. Ninian tells me travel sometimes exacerbates the sickness
of these early months. If that’s all that has upset you, you may rest easy
now.”
“Rest? Do
you think I’ll ever rest again? I’ve been wanting to do this ever since you
flounced down the steps this morning.”
He
pressed his mouth to hers and reveled in the answering passion he found there.
This wasn’t a woman who played games. He tasted the sweet wine of desire on her
tongue, and her nipples became hard beneath his groping fingers. She sighed
into his mouth, and Dunstan thought he would like to lift her skirts and take
her right there.
The
giggles behind the door prevented that action.
“I’ll go
mad,” he muttered, bending to press a kiss behind her ear and absorb the
flowery scent of her skin.
Deliberately,
she slid her fingers to the buttons of his breeches. “It would require but a
minute—”
Dunstan
caught her hand and moved it to safer ground. “It would take far longer than a
minute, longer than a night or a week or a month. And it will have to wait
until we’ve returned to the privacy of the country. I’ll not have both our
families looking over our shoulders while we rut like animals.”
She stood
on her toes to nip his earlobe, then retreated to a safer distance. “You are
looking for an argument to distract you from what lies ahead, and I’ll not give
it to you. I’ve been thinking of what you said about not giving Celia an
allowance to live on in London.”
He
stiffened. There was a subject guaranteed to take the heat out of his desire.
“I couldn’t afford two households and didn’t see any reason to encourage her
misbehavior,” he explained.
She
dismissed his excuses with the wave of a hand. “So what was it she did
live on? Or who? Think about it.”
She swung
on her heel and stalked away, leaving Dunstan to groan in an agony of
frustration.
“Tell me
I’m beautiful,” Leila said to Dunstan, twisting her gloved hands in her lap as
the coach lumbered through the fading light of a London evening after they’d
left Ninian and the girls at the Ives country estate in Surrey. Griffith had
elected to ride on the driver’s seat outside the coach to better observe the
exciting city he’d never seen.
“Why tell
you what you already know?” Dunstan inquired curtly.
Leila
thought he’d thrown his nervousness out the window miles ago, after enduring
two days of feminine upheavals. This day alone, the youngest babe had been
nearly trampled by the horses, the eldest had insisted on riding astride with
Griffith, and Leila had cast up her accounts twice—and Dunstan had seemed to
accept all of it with remarkable aplomb.
When
Ninian had insisted they all stop and say farewell to her son in the nursery,
and the one-year-old had lofted a ball straight into the air for longer than
the laws of gravity allowed, Dunstan had exchanged looks with Leila but hadn’t
said a word. So what was bothering the damned man now?
“It would
make more sense to reassure you that you’re far more intelligent and gifted
than Ninian,” he continued, but even his unexpected flattery sounded brusque.
The
closer they came to London, the more distance he set between them. She had
tried chattering about friends and family. He withdrew further into brooding
silence.
Leila
leaned her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and tried to read his
scent, but she knew how he smelled far too well by now, and found no surprises.
“Ninian can heal people,” she answered with a sigh of frustration. “I can only
make odd perfumes and smell things.”
“Leila,
you haven’t any idea what you can do,” he said angrily. “You’ve only just
figured out that perfumes or smells give you odd insights. Ninian had her
grandmother to teach her from childhood what she could do. It’s all a matter of
education.”
Well, at
least she’d elicited some response from him.
“You
needn’t shout.” She glared out the coach window. “And you needn’t speak to me
of education. If it’s your worry over how to go on in society that has you
growling, then you’re no better than I am. You need only a little experience
and you’ll have the silly sheep fawning all over you.”
“I don’t
give a damn about sheep,” he muttered.
“Then
tell me what you do give a damn about!” she shouted, her own nervousness nearly
equaling his as they drew closer to their destination.
“Hanging,”
he said bluntly. “Leaving you and Griffith and our child alone with my black
reputation to ruin you.”
“You
didn’t kill Celia. Surely you know that.”
“That
doesn’t mean I can prove it.” He leaned back against the seat and crossed his
arms defiantly.
Giving up
on improving his mood, Leila leaned forward. “Then tell me what happened that
day. Maybe there is something in the tale that can help us.”
“You
think Drogo hasn’t already thought of that?” Shadows cast his face in darkness,
but an errant light from the window caught the worry marring his wide brow.
Leila
reached across the space between them to touch his knee and remind him that he
had her now. He didn’t have to face the investigation alone. “Drogo isn’t me. If
we’re to work together, then I must know everything you know.”
His queue
fell over his shoulder as he turned away from her to glare out the window. “If
I knew anything, don’t you think I would have done something sooner?”
“Tell
me,” she demanded, refusing to take “no” for an answer. “Start with George
Wickham.”
Closing
his eyes and rubbing his forehead, Dunstan spoke as if the devil tortured the
words from him.
Surrey, 1751
“What
the deuce do you think you’re doing?” Dunstan demanded.
Climbing
over the stile to reach the horse pasture, he glared in disbelief at the
drunken fop who was attempting to round up two skittish carriage horses. One of
the tenants had alerted him to the theft, but he hadn’t believed any thief
could be stupid enough to operate in broad daylight.
The
young robber’s chin lifted defiantly from the folds of his disheveled neckcloth as he
grabbed one horse’s harness. “I’ve come to retrieve Celia’s horses.”
Dunstan
remained on top of the wall and crossed his arms to hide the pain at the
mention of his adulterous wife’s name. Which one of her many lovers was this?
Judging from the richness of the silk coat, he’d say one of the wealthy,
aristocratic ones. Celia liked titles. “They’re not Celia’s. They belong to the
earl.”
The
young man shrugged. “The lady says they’re hers. My pair went lame, and she
offered these.”
“The
lady lies.” Dunstan tried not to bellow and frighten the high-strung animals.
“If the horses are hers, why does she not come to the door and ask for them?”
The
mare flung her head, and Celia’s drunken victim nearly fell over his feet to
maintain his hold. Recovering, he grimaced. “The lady is afraid of her
husband.”
Fury
flooded Dunstan’s reason. The fool lordling didn’t even know who he was.
He
didn’t know whether his anger was directed at himself for the lack of
sophistication that failed to distinguish him from his tenants, or at Celia for
her treachery. It scarcely mattered since the result was the same.
“Apparently
Celia isn’t afraid that her husband will hang you for a horse thief,” he
answered cynically.
Stepping
down the other side of the stile, Dunstan began crossing the pasture, debating
whether to collar the fool and heave him into a steaming pile of horse shit or
kick him all the way back to Baden and Celia.
To his
annoyance, the young man produced a pistol from his coat pocket. “Don’t come
near me! I’ll report you to the authorities.”
This
close, Dunstan recognized the shivering idiot as one of the fast set Celia used to invite to
Ives—George Wickham, heir to an earldom.
At the
same time that Dunstan remembered him, Georgie Boy saw past Dunstan’s rough
clothes and flushed with recognition. “Ives! I should think even an ignorant
hayseed would have sense enough to keep his distance when his wife asks for
what’s rightfully hers.”
Ignorant
hayseed! Dunstan’s temper soared. Stalking across the remaining distance, he
rolled his fingers into fists.
Panicking,
Wickham dropped the horse’s reins and gripped the pistol with both hands. “For
my lady’s honor, I challenge you to meet me.”
Honor. As
if Celia possessed a shred of it. Eyeing the shaking pistol with disdain,
Dunstan calculated his chances of disarming the drunken rake to be fairly good,
but he wasn’t much interested in contracting lead poisoning if he could avoid
it. His fingers itched to remove Wickham’s empty head from his noble shoulders,
but his rage was directed more at Celia than her latest victim. “Go back to
Celia and tell her to buy her own damned horses.”
“I’m
challenging you to a duel!” the lad screamed. “You cannot treat a lady as you
have and not expect to die for it.”
Impatiently,
Dunstan approached the armed thief. No one deserved to die over Celia, but he
would send the nodcock back to her smelling like the horses he would steal.
“I’m
warning you, Ives! You cannot beat me as you do her. Produce your weapon, sir.”
Wickham retreated another step.
Beat her!
Dunstan snorted at the ridiculousness of the lie. “If I’d beat the
damned woman, she’d not be alive to torment either of us now.”
Rather
than argue further, Dunstan lunged for the lunatic. Wickham dodged, and
Dunstan’s fist grazed his weak jaw. Caught off balance by the blow, Wickham
lurched backward. Heel sliding in a pile of fresh manure, he shrieked as he
slipped and tumbled over—falling on his gun arm.
The
weapon discharged, smoke filled the air, and to Dunstan’s horror, the Honorable
George Wickham lay sprawled in a pile of horse shit, his life’s blood seeping
from a gaping wound in his side.
“Out,
damn spot!” Dunstan muttered, as he sat on the marble steps outside his
brother’s rural mansion, staring at the damning iron-red spot crusted on his
boot.
Dipping
his handkerchief into the tankard of ale beside him, he attempted to rub the
offending blot from the muddy leather. “Macbeth,” he grunted. “I’m not an
ignorant hayseed.” Wickham’s insult still rankled, but his adversary was no
longer alive to hear his argument. The horror of that pool of blood formed a
blank wall of denial beyond which Dunstan couldn’t see.
“Sir?”
the sheriff’s assistant inquired uneasily while the sexton and a field hand
loaded the body of the once Honorable George onto a cart.
Dunstan
raised his glower from his boot to the young man, who was shaking in his.
Dunstan had no weapon except his fists, but that was all he needed to frighten
the boy.
Why
the hell had Celia sent George Wickham to steal Drogo’s horses? Dunstan
couldn’t send the frightened assistant into the devil’s den to ask.
He
closed his eyes and let the deputy off the hook. “It hath been often said that it is not death,
but dying, which is terrible. I always liked Fielding’s satire.” Boot
cleaned, he drained the tankard of ale, rose from the stone stoop, and glared
at the sheet-covered body in the cart.
“The
grave’s a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.” But
quoting poets wouldn’t answer the question at hand, he knew. “Guess I’d better
find the bitch, tell her she’s not embracing the Honorable George anymore.” He
dreaded the confrontation. An entire barrel of ale wouldn’t numb him
sufficiently to make it bearable.
The
sheriff’s deputy looked mildly alarmed. “Sir, I know it was a matter of
self-defense, and your brother is the magistrate, but perhaps you should let
someone else speak with the lady . . .”
Dunstan
watched the cart carrying the body rumble down the lane, away from the estate,
and shook his head. “Affection
is enamour’d of thy parts, And thou are wedded to calamity. Calamity, she
should have been called.”
Celia
could drive a man to murder.
When a
footman arrived with a silver tray, tankards, and a pitcher of ale, Dunstan
poured a fresh cup of fortification. “Liquid courage, it is.”
The
deputy glared at the footman. “He should be taken to his chambers. A man just
died here. This is a serious matter.”
The
footman shrugged. “He don’t quote poetry ’cept when he’s cup-shot. Ain’t seen
him like this”—the liveried lad wrinkled his nose in thought—“since the
mistress left him back a year or so ago.”
Dunstan
glowered at the loquacious footman, set the empty tankard on the tray, and
stalked toward the stable muttering, “Of comfort no man speak: Let’s talk of
graves, of worms, and epitaphs.”
Not
being one to stick his head in a noose, the deputy dismissed any further
attempt to stop him the moment Dunstan ripped the stout oak bar from the stable
and flung it halfway across the yard.
Dunstan
didn’t remember much of how he’d reached the inn in Baden, but once there, the
landlord confirmed what Dunstan had already known. His adulterous wife was
waiting upstairs for the return of her lover. No amount of ale could erase that
damnable tiding.
“Celia!”
Dunstan bellowed as he pounded the wooden door of her chamber. “I need to talk
with you.”
She
laughed, the light, tinkling laugh that had once caused his gut to clench with
desire. She always laughed at his bellows. Or yelled back. That last time,
she’d run away.
Mind
reeling, Dunstan rubbed his aching forehead and steadied himself. He was a big
man who could handle his liquor. He’d never passed out from drink before. Of
course, he’d never watched a man die either. Maybe he had drunk a wee bit more
than usual, but he was thinking straight enough to know it wasn’t seemly to
shout his news about George from the hall.
Contemplating
the stout door standing between himself and his faithless wife, Dunstan allowed
his rage to build, replacing the guilt and shame of watching a weak young man
bleed to death for no good reason at all.
Celia
had told George Wickham that Dunstan beat her. She’d sent him to steal horses she’d
known weren’t hers. She knew Wickham carried a pistol. She knew Dunstan didn’t
even own one.
The
callousness of her behavior filled Dunstan with such rage that he ripped the
chamber door from its leather hinges with one good pull.
“You
meant for George to kill me!” Dunstan flung the door down the stairs and strode
into the room.
Beautiful,
sophisticated Celia stood in the room’s center, laughing, undismayed at his
crude entrance. “Of course, dear, but I figured you had even odds. George isn’t
very smart. How is he?”
In a
moment of crystal clarity, Dunstan comprehended the enormity of his wife’s
duplicity. She’d drained him of every penny he possessed, run up debts in his
name far higher than he could pay in a lifetime, and knowing she no longer
possessed the power to twist him to her wishes, she must have decided he was
expendable. She had hoped Wickham would kill him and free her to marry another.
That
poor pitiful creature back there had paid the price of her scheming. Without
wondering why she was willing to sacrifice her lover, Dunstan let his last
flickering ember of affection for her die into ashes. “George is dead, may you
rot in purgatory,” he declared.
He
reached for her, staggered, and blacked out.
“And
that’s the last I remember.”
Sick to
his stomach, Dunstan watched out the carriage window rather than look at the
lovely woman seated across from him. He held his breath in fear of her scorn.
“You
passed out,” she said without a shred of doubt.
His
breath expelled in relief. He didn’t understand why or how, but she believed
what he could not. “I didn’t drink enough to pass out. They found Celia dead
and me sleeping in the hall outside. I must have staggered there somehow.”
“Then we
must discover who entered Celia’s room after you left.”
“No one,”
he asserted now that they were on familiar territory. “The sheriff and Drogo
and my hired investigator have all inquired about the inn’s occupants. It was
the usual assortment of farmers and shopkeepers she never would have
acknowledged. None of them stirred themselves to go upstairs to her rescue
while I bellowed at her. They only discovered us when one of them stumbled over
me in the dark later.”
“Someone
she knew was there,” Leila replied firmly. “Who would have benefited from her
death? Or yours?”
Dunstan
blinked. “My death?”
“Of
course. Letting you take the blame for Celia’s murder would certainly remove
you from society and, with luck, see you incarcerated and hanged. For all we
know, someone may have encouraged Celia to want you dead.”
“I have
nothing anyone could gain, dead or alive,” he protested. “Celia was the only one
who would benefit.”
“We’re
almost there.” She glanced out the window at the Ives town house.
“I ought
to see you home first,” he argued, upon discovering their route.
“No, it
is better if my family does not see us together tonight. They are all in residence
this time of year.”
Guilt
swamped him again as he realized she could not be seen with him in front of her
family.
“If your
mother suspects about the child,” he said cautiously, “you may tell her I stand
ready to do the proper thing whenever you ask it of me.” Swallowing a lump of
apprehension so large that it threatened to choke him, Dunstan offered all that
he owned, his very tarnished name.
Leila
cast him a sidelong look. “I thought you said we couldn’t marry.”
Setting
aside his towering uneasiness for Leila’s sake, he reassured her as best he
could. He’d done nothing else but think of these things for the last hours. “We
can do whatever we choose to do. You are the one who would sacrifice the most,
and I refuse to ask it of you. But if your family forces the issue, and you
would feel better for it, I’ll gladly offer my name.”
She
nodded, but he couldn’t read her expression in the heavy gloom. Until recently,
he had thought he might suffocate did he ever say the word “marriage” to
another woman, but he seemed in rather good condition now, all things
considered. He took a deep breath, and found that everything functioned fine.
“You are
right,” she agreed, to his relief. “I’d lose my land, and you would not be
happy living in town on my money. I have no wish to marry again. We must be
circumspect until we return to the country.”
Dunstan
didn’t think it would be as easy as all that, but he would let her fool herself
for a while longer. She hadn’t laughed at his offer, but treated it logically,
as he did. He liked the way her mind mirrored his. “Once we’re back at your
estate, I’ll be but a stone’s throw away,” he said. “You will have your land
and your roses, and I’ll take measures so Staines cannot threaten either of
us.”
The
viscount had promised him the tenant farm if he married her, but Dunstan didn’t
think Leila would appreciate living in a cottage or losing her gardens. Her
wishes came first. Besides, he didn’t trust Leila’s spoiled nephew to keep his
word, especially if he remained in the decadent company of men like Henry
Wickham and Lord John Albemarle. Leeches like that would part the lad from his
money in one manner or another soon enough.
The coach
rolled to a halt in front of the aging Ives town house.
Leila
leaned across the seat and pressed a kiss to Dunstan’s cheek. He caught her
chin between his fingers and placed a more lingering kiss on her lips. Brushing
a stray tendril of hair from her forehead, he released her. “I’m not a man of
fancy words, Leila, but you have only to send for me, night or day, and I’ll
come. I wish I could promise more.”
“That is
all the promise I need,” she murmured. She patted his cheek and straightened
her shoulders. “I am my own woman now. I make my own decisions. Give my regards
to Drogo.”
Dunstan
shook his head but didn’t argue as he climbed out. He knew their future would
be far more complicated than she anticipated.
And
first, before he could do anything about Leila and the child she carried, he
must find a killer.
The witches arrived the next afternoon, sooner than Dunstan had thought
they would.
Arms
crossed, leaning against the upstairs window overlooking the narrow street
below, he impassively watched the scurrying of footmen and passersby as the
Duchess of Mainwaring and the Marchioness of Hampton, Leila’s aunt and mother,
respectively, stepped from their carriage to the cobblestones.
He’d
given Leila’s family a whole day to amass weapons and outrage. He’d known Leila
couldn’t keep the child a secret from her unnaturally perceptive family.
In most worlds,
two middle-aged ladies would not constitute a military force, but in his world,
they had the power of an arsenal, two battalions of soldiers, and untold
cavalry. Even the bystanders stood back and watched as the women ordered
parasols and shawls retrieved from the interior, berated a young boy for not
aiding his mother with her packages, called for their driver to check the lead
horse’s leg, and handed what appeared to be silk sachets and a lecture to a
bedraggled young woman clinging to a toddler.
Leila’s
absence was ominous.
Well, at
least the battle would be fought on home ground and with two of his brothers
present.
Not
bothering to check the knot of his cravat or brush back the hair escaping his
queue—although he was tempted to check for gray strands—Dunstan sauntered into
the upper hall and listened to the low conversation of his brothers below.
Since
Ninian had married Drogo, she had made some impression on the decrepit mansion
and all-male household simply by hiring capable servants and ordering the chaos
of male accouterments confined to a limited number of rooms. A little paint,
some feminine wallpaper in a parlor or two, and a few pieces of furniture that
didn’t rattle or collapse when sat upon constituted the remainder of her
achievements. The floors still creaked, the walls still bent at odd angles—and
sound still carried from the foyer to the upper levels.
“We don’t
have to open the door,” his twenty-two-year-old half brother, Joseph, was
suggesting to the elderly butler. “Or you can tell the footman we’re not at
home. Isn’t that what Ninian does when she’s busy?”
“Open the
door, Jarvis.” A voice of authority easily recognizable as the earl’s rumbled
up from the hall Dunstan couldn’t see. “I doubt they paraded out here to visit
Ninian. The Duchess of Mainwaring knows precisely where everyone is at any
given time.” Without a break in his tone or any indication that he could see up
the stairs, Drogo continued, “Dunstan, you might as well come down now. They’ll
only hunt you throughout the house if you don’t.”
“Give me
time to stick some hay in my hair,” he replied, stomping down the creaking
stairs two at a time. “Perhaps it will remind them I am but a lowly farmer.”
“I
shouldn’t think they’ve forgotten,” Drogo answered wryly, studying Dunstan through
knowing eyes. “They’re Ninian’s aunts and they’ve been more than helpful to us,
so try to behave.”
Eyes wide
behind his spectacles, Joseph watched Dunstan as if he were a condemned man on
the way to the gallows. “You didn’t ask them to find Celia’s killer, did you?”
he asked in disbelief.
No Ives
in known history had ever willingly requested Malcolm aid. They may have
been forced to accept it upon occasion, but to ask for the meddling women to
interfere, with some hope of controlling the outcome? No chance. One didn’t
tamper with forces of nature.
And yet
Dunstan had done exactly that.
“Ninian
and Leila have already put their heads together, so that’s out of my control,”
he admitted, catching a glimpse through the open door of the ladies consulting
each other while the footman took their cards. Perhaps if he went outside and
met them, he could keep his brothers from interfering.
“Joseph,
I suggest you stop gawking and return to whatever it is you’re supposed to be
doing,” Drogo said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Joseph
shrugged and gave Dunstan a look of sympathy before removing a polished stone
from his pocket and handing it over. “Here. Felicity said this stone has
powerful vibrations of good fortune. You’ll need it more than I.”
“Right.”
Dunstan shoved the pebble into his pocket. He’d stuff birds there if he thought
it would allow him to survive this confrontation with his skin intact.
He didn’t
have time to formulate an answer to the query in Drogo’s lifted eyebrow. While
Joseph scampered out of sight, the ladies ascended the outside steps and
appeared in the doorway like avenging angels.
“Dunstan
Ives!” the duchess
thundered, shoving her open parasol through the narrow opening and clacking it
against the tiled floor. “We’re here to speak with you.”
Tall and
as stately as Juno, she cut through the waters of turmoil like a battleship in
full sail. In elegant blue-striped taffeta, she squeezed through a doorway
designed for men and not women, momentarily crushing her panniers. “Ives! It’s
good you’re here. Let us repair to the salon. Come along, Hermione.” The wiring
beneath her skirt sprang to life again as she gestured to her shorter, stouter
sister and led the way.
“I think
hanging might be easier,” Dunstan muttered, catching one of the marchioness’s
drifting scarves as he and Drogo fell in behind the ladies.
“I’ll
stand behind you in whatever you choose to do,” Drogo murmured in return. “I’ll
not see you suffer another disastrous marriage.”
Relieved
that his brother supported him without question, Dunstan squared his shoulders
and entered the salon with determination.
“Call for
tea, sir,” the duchess commanded, immediately reducing the earl to a lackey.
“Ninian has done a poor job of teaching you manners.”
“It isn’t
Ninian’s job to teach me anything,” Drogo returned, signaling Jarvis to do as
he’d been told before closing the salon door.
While his
brother took up a position leaning against the mantel, Dunstan paced in front
of the ladies. “I trust Leila has explained why we’ve returned to London, and
you have come to offer assistance.” Always take the strongest position first,
he’d learned long ago.
Leila’s
mother gasped and waved her shawl in front of her face as if she were in need
of air. The duchess merely sat with spine rigid, hands on the knob of her
parasol, glaring.
“Do not
take that officious tone with me, young man,” the duchess commanded. “Leila has
told us how you have helped her learn of her gift. We are grateful.”
Almost
falling over his feet at this unexpected acknowledgment, Dunstan halted his
march across the floor and stared at the old witch. Too caught up in his fears,
he hadn’t noticed the subtle fragrances of the two ladies, but he should have.
Leila had packed all her vials of perfume bases when she’d left the country.
The first thing she would have done upon arrival would have been to tell her
mother what she’d learned of her gift, then experiment on the family.
He
admired Leila’s cleverness. He had the overwhelming urge to grin hugely, but he
didn’t want to give himself away.
“I have
nothing to do with Leila’s gifts and talents,” he answered, pacing once again.
“She simply needed to be left alone long enough to develop them.” He wondered
what artifices the perfume had revealed in these women, or if it was only his
imagination that the perfume had any effect at all.
“It has
always been our policy to let our children explore their gifts at their own
pace,” Hermione said. “I tried to encourage Leila,” she continued almost
apologetically, “but she is so opposite of everything I am that—”
The
duchess interrupted. “Leila has always been headstrong and determined, and has
known precisely where she was going and what she had to do to get there. She
has manipulated all of us since she was small, but not once did we think of how
she managed it. We were simply glad that she could go on without much help from
us.”
“And no
one thought it odd that she smelled fear or cowardice?” Dunstan inquired.
Hermione
gesticulated helplessly. “We’re all so odd, dear, how could one notice the
difference? Of course, it was unusual, but so is her black hair. And I smell
love and happiness and conflict when I create my fragrances, so I thought
nothing of it. I’d hoped she would build upon her talent for scents, but I
simply didn’t . . .” She gestured again, unable to explain.
“Listen
to us,” Stella exclaimed. “We are simpering like ninnies instead of telling you
just exactly what we think of you.” She glared at Drogo. “I want to demand that
your brother marry my niece, but I cannot help but admit my admiration instead.
It’s quite the outside of enough. You shall have to do it for me.”
Perplexed,
Drogo looked to Dunstan for an explanation.
Dunstan
wrapped his fingers around Felicity’s stone in his pocket and sought the
diplomatic words he needed—as if he had ever in his life practiced diplomacy.
“Leila has the ability to see the true nature of people through her sense of
smell,” he explained. “In a way that we can’t explain, we think it may relate
to the unique perfumes she creates. She’s not had time to experiment, so we
don’t know the extent of her gift.”
His
logical, scientific brother crossed his arms and nodded, waiting for further
revelations.
Dunstan
tried to think of a polite way to explain the ladies’ current dilemma. “I think
what the duchess is trying to say is that she cannot bluster and threaten me
when what she really feels is gratitude because I have helped Leila understand
her gift and made her happy.”
“Threaten?”
Drogo asked calmly, turning his gaze to the ladies.
The
marchioness fluttered her hands again. “I know Leila is very headstrong and it
must be my fault, but surely, my lord, you cannot approve of her bearing your
niece out of wedlock. I know it is done, and that she has her reasons, but
really, sir . . .”
The
duchess raised her expressive eyebrows, and silence froze the room while Drogo
absorbed the implications of this outburst.
Dunstan
winced as the earl grasped the gist of the problem and shot him a questioning
look.
“They say
the child is a girl,” he offered, as if that explained it all. “Leila thinks
she will have no difficulty raising a girl on her own. I have promised to be at
hand to help as I can. It is her choice,” he continued. “She will lose her home
and land and the gardens if we marry.”
The
Duchess of Mainwaring rose in a rustle of taffeta. “I will not allow a breath
of scandal to harm my daughters or my nieces,” she lectured. “You will find the
foul villain who has besmirched your name, then you will marry Leila.”
Dipping
her powdered curls so that the absurd flowers on her cap bounced, she motioned
for her sister to rise. “Come along, Hermione. I am certain that Ives men know
their duty.”
Straightening
her rumpled skirt, searching for her misplaced parasol, pulling her neckscarf
askew in the process, Hermione turned a firm gaze in Dunstan’s direction.
“Felicity’s come-out ball is tomorrow. You will be there.”
Dunstan
bowed gallantly and waited for Jarvis to escort the ladies out. Then,
collapsing on the sofa, he buried his head in his hands and moaned.
“Lady
Leila has enjoyed commanding society these few years past,” Drogo said from his
position at the mantel behind Dunstan. “And you despise that society.”
“She is
everything that Celia wanted to be,” Dunstan agreed, “and everything Celia
could never have been.”
“I see.”
Drogo dropped into a chair opposite and crossed his foot over his knee. “No, I
take that back. I do not see. The two of you could not have created a child
together if you had nothing in common.”
Agony
ground through Dunstan’s gut at the dilemma of having to explain what he and
Leila had done. It was inexplicable. He’d had no right to look at another
woman. Leila must have been insane to hire him in the first place. None of what
had happened made logical sense.
He would
rather eat glass than expose his feelings. Ninian could probably explain them
better than he could. Or Leila. Maybe he should send for Leila. How did he
explain that they did not want to marry but desired each other’s company? It
didn’t make sense even to him.
“Leila
wants me to develop new strains of flowers for her,” he said. “She needs to
create new scents that now she only smells in her head.” He understood that
much, at least. “The scents somehow give her insights into the people around
her, or they reveal their true personalities in some manner because of the
perfume.
“To
develop her power will take a great deal of land, labor, and time. She is
willing to sacrifice her position in society if that’s what it takes.” Dunstan
rubbed his fingers into his hair, willing himself to believe that last.
Drogo
tapped his boot with his fingernails. “ ‘Sacrifice’ being the key word
here? She enjoys London and society and all the fripperies of her sort?”
Dunstan
nodded against his palms. “I believe so. She’s had parties of people coming and
going ever since she retired out there.”
“So it
isn’t just your lack of land or wealth that is the problem,” Drogo observed.
“No,” Dunstan agreed. “She does not wish to marry again.
She doesn’t want to give up her estate or control of her life, and I should
imagine she will not wish to give up London either, once she has what she
wants.”
“And if
she marries you, she loses her estate.”
Dunstan
nodded again. “I am the worst thing that could happen to her.”
“Yes, I
can see that,” Drogo said thoughtfully, still tapping his foot.
He rose,
and Dunstan could see his own reflection in his brother’s boots. He didn’t look
up to read Drogo’s expression. He didn’t need a lecture right now.
“I have
confidence that you’ll do what’s best for all concerned,” Drogo said. “You
won’t need me tomorrow evening, will you? Venus will be in conjunction with
Mars, and Tom Wright and a few others have invited me to an observatory.”
Drawing
down his eyebrows in confusion, Dunstan glanced up. “That is it? No lectures on
doing the responsible thing? On honor? On supporting my offspring?”
Drogo
tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh. “Both of you are of an age to
know what you want. I’ve enough to do with the younger ones. I will support you
in whatever decision you make. You know you’re welcome to return to Ives or to
take charge of the Wystan estate in Northumberland, should you wish. I have no
doubts about your competence. An Ives female!” The earl rolled his eyes
heavenward and stalked out, leaving Dunstan to stare at the yellow-silk walls.
Free to
do anything he liked . . .
But he
could do nothing at all until he cleared his name—as the duchess had so bluntly
pointed out.
With that
goal firmly in mind, Dunstan shouted for Joseph, who would no doubt be hiding
in the walls and have heard everything already.
Griffith
appeared in company with his curly-haired uncle. Joseph and Griffith were eight
years apart in age, miles apart in experience. For a moment, Dunstan hesitated.
He didn’t want to involve his son in this investigation. He didn’t want
Griffith exploring dangerous city streets. He wanted to keep him sheltered—yet
he could not.
Dunstan
pointed at the door. “The two of you, find David and Paul.” His youngest half
brothers were never in school where they belonged. “If Ewen is in town, call
him in as well. We’re about to search all the pawnshops in London.”
“How can
Griffith help?” Joseph demanded. “He knows nothing of London.”
“Teach
him,” Dunstan ordered. Joseph and his two younger brothers had a fairly strong
grasp of what it took to keep a lively Ives mind occupied. He could trust them
with his son. “The two of you can visit the better shops. He might recognize
Celia’s jewels faster than any of you can.”
The pride
he saw in Griffith’s expression nearly broke his heart. He should have included
his son long before now. He prayed that he had many years left to spend with
him.
Joseph
broke into a grin. “Finally decided you didn’t murder the twit, did you? Good.
Now we’ll get somewhere.”
Slapping
Dunstan’s back in satisfaction, Joseph dashed out with Griffith hot on his
heels.
When the
hell had his shy baby half brother grown into a confident man-about-town?
Dunstan
sighed at the impossibility of dealing with London and fatherhood and murderers
and matters he knew nothing about.
Remembering
the command of Leila’s aunt and mother, he added a trip to the tailor to the
list of impossible things he had to do. He mustn’t shame Leila at Felicity’s
come-out.
He would
rather wrestle crazed killers than attend a frippery ball.
“You’ve had time enough to interview
half of London,” Dunstan declared, pacing the parlor and jerking back the
velvet cutains to discover the current source of the racket out on the street.
Viscount
Handel, his personable investigator, merely crossed his leg over his knee and
smiled. “And so I have. Your late wife had a large and varied circle of
friends.”
“All
male,” Dunstan said with derision.
“Mostly,”
Handel agreed. “Men prefer to dally with married ladies. Less consequence,
particularly if the husband is disinterested.”
Forced to
confront the idea that he must have seemed a disinterested husband to Celia’s
paramours, Dunstan winced at the guilt inflicted by Handel’s observation. He
turned away from the sight of a carriage driver shouting curses at a pedestrian
in the street below and sank into a chair.
Was
his guilt even greater because somewhere in his soul he was glad Celia was
dead? Rubbing his
forehead, Dunstan tried not to think that. It was almost worse than believing
he might have killed her in a drunken fit. Whatever Celia had been, she hadn’t
deserved to die.
“Did any
of Celia’s lovers happen to be in the vicinity of Baden the night she died?”
Dunstan asked.
Handel
shrugged. “Not that they’ll admit. I’ve been investigating alibis as best I’m
able. The height of the Season had not begun, so the entertainments here in
London were few. Lady Willoughby held a soirée, and many of Celia’s friends
attended that night. They can attest for each other.”
“How many
does that leave unaccounted for?” Dunstan demanded with impatience.
“That depends
on who would have a motive to kill her. There doesn’t seem to be any. George
Wickham was head over heels in love with her. Lord John Albemarle was seen with
her upon more than one occasion, but he’s unmarried and seeking a wealthy wife,
so that’s of no account. There’s a Sir Barton Townsend who frequents that
crowd, but no more so than half a dozen others. Even Lady Leila’s young nephew,
Lord Staines, was known to have gambled in her company when he was down from
school. I’m exploring Celia’s favorite gaming houses, hoping to uncover someone
who might have owed her a large sum. That’s my only theory of the moment. That,
or she knew something she shouldn’t.”
Could the
laughing, lovely girl child he’d married be guilty of blackmail? It didn’t seem
likely, but she must have supported her lifestyle somehow. “See if Sir Bryan
Trimble was in London then. He’s a baronet from near Bath. Apparently Ceila
humiliated him.”
Even as
he made the suggestion, Dunstan couldn’t believe he was using information
gained from a Malcolm vision to search for a murderer.
Then
again, since Leila was the Malcolm in question, perhaps it wasn’t so odd—no
more so than his belief that she could smell emotion.
“My
brothers do not go about much in society, but if there’s any way they can help,
they’re willing,” Dunstan continued. “Give us a list of people and questions,
and we’ll start on it. There’s some chance Celia may have been robbed, so we’re
trying to locate her jewels.” He didn’t care to explain that a Malcolm child
thought Celia had had at least one of her jewels with her in Baden, and it had
disappeared along with all the rest.
Handel’s
brows drew together in thought. “Excellent idea. I had assumed that you—or the
earl—gave her an allowance, but was there some chance she pawned them?”
“I gave
her no allowance.” Dunstan peered glumly out the window again.
“I should
have asked.” The viscount thrummed his fingers on his crossed knee. “Tracing
her income could be significant. She rented a small flat, but it was located in
an expensive area. Someone was paying.”
“Perhaps
she paid with the jewels I bought her, since they were never found.”
“George
Wickham had an allowance, but he wasn’t wealthy.” Handel rose from the chair,
apparently eager to follow this new lead. “Neither is Lord John. Perhaps Sir
Barton Townsend. He wasn’t seen with her much, but they flirted publicly. They
might have had an arrangement. I’ll inquire more deeply.”
“I need
to pay you for your efforts so far.” Dunstan retreated toward the desk. “You
must have expenses.”
Handel
shook his head. “This investigation gives me a good excuse to spend my evenings
in gaming houses and bad company. I assure you, it’s no more than I would have
spent on my own. I’ll charge you handsomely for my bad habits when I solve the
crime.”
Dunstan
had the uneasy feeling that Drogo was paying the man, but he couldn’t argue. He
would repay his brother when his crop came in. “Keep me apprised of all
suspects. The more eyes and ears we have, the faster we’ll learn.”
Handel
nodded. “I’m glad of your help. See you at Lady Felicity’s come-out this
evening?”
“I’ll be
there.”
“You’re
not wearing black,” Leila exclaimed, hurrying across the empty dance floor
toward the man towering at the top of the grand entrance staircase leading into
the ballroom. That he’d chosen to dress fashionably rather than appear as a
brooding menace to society warmed a piece of her frozen heart. “The green is
absolutely perfect on you.”
Dunstan
frowned at his elegant frock coat and gold-and-white-striped silk vest, then
shrugged and fastened his dark gaze on her. “The tailor said this color is all
the fashion. Looks like parrot feathers to me. He said I couldn’t wear popular
styles but this one would suit. I’m not certain but what I’ve been insulted.”
His lack
of vanity melted Leila’s heart a little more. “He means you are much too broad
and manly to be encased in padding and frippery. He’s chosen an excellent cut
for you instead. You will set the fashion this season.”
Apparently
mollified, he stomped down one side of the split semicircular staircase leading
to the lowered floor of the ballroom. Located on the third floor of the
marquess’s London residence, the ballroom was designed for impressive
entrances. He glanced with curiosity at the glittering candles and festive ropes
of flowers on the high ceiling. “Why did you ask me here early?”
“I
thought you might be more comfortable if you were already ensconced in the
gaming room when the crowds arrived. Besides, I wanted to see you before I’m
lost to family duties.” Leila smoothed his cravat, not because it needed it,
but because she wished to touch him.
He
quirked a supercilious eyebrow. “Did you wish to see if I would shame you by
wearing boots and moth-eaten wool?”
She
batted her fan against his nose. “I wished for you to kiss me, but now I do
not. Go sulk in the conservatory, but try not to throw anyone over the
balconies this evening. It’s Felicity’s first ball, and she’s terrified.”
A dark
gleam lit his eye, and in the second before she realized she’d thrown down a
gauntlet, Dunstan clasped her waist, crushed her panniers, and hauled her into
his arms. She had time only to grab his shoulders for balance before he bent
her backward and took her mouth with the soul-stirring kiss that she had spent
nights dreaming of.
“Leila,” a
panicked girlish voice called from the landing of the private floor below the
ballroom. “Where are you? I cannot wear these gloves!”
Dunstan
lowered her slowly to the floor again, not completely releasing her. Gasping,
Leila raised a hand to her heated cheek. She’d never had a suitor accept her
challenge and act on it. She’d best learn not to tease men like Dunstan.
She
didn’t think another man like Dunstan existed. In his presence, all others
paled to foppish caricatures. By the goddesses, what was he doing to her? She
ought to be more in command of herself.
“Give me
some task so I do not lose my mind these next hours,” he demanded, returning
her to her senses.
“What did
your investigator say?” Leila asked. “Did he give you names of suspects?
Perhaps we can question them together.”
“I don’t
like involving you any more than I already have. My brothers are helping me.”
Before she could argue, Dunstan eyed her stack of inky curls. “It’s not
fashionable.”
“Anything
I do is fashionable.” She slapped his arm with her fan, irritated by his
refusal of her aid but softened by his look of approval. “Do you like it?”
“I like
that you did it for me.” Appreciation rumbled through his tone and gleamed in
his eye.
The man
didn’t know a word of polite flattery, but his blunt honesty had her hot and
flustered and wondering how the evening might end. “Go hide where you will, and
I’ll find you later,” she ordered.
He looked
amused but stepped away so she might flee to her sister.
By the
time the first guests arrived and the family had formed a receiving line to
greet them, Dunstan was nowhere to be seen. Leila kept an anxious eye on the
ballroom, but she couldn’t expect him to be loitering there, admiring the
decorations.
The first
indication that all was not as it should be came with a scent Leila could only
describe as buoyant. She’d never before attempted to identify scents or connect
them with character traits. “Buoyancy” didn’t seem to be a quality other people
noticed.
Nervously,
she glanced over the rapidly filling ballroom. The musicians had taken their
places in their balcony and had begun tuning their instruments. Her mother had
added the fragrances of pleasure and happiness to all the candles, so the crowd
murmured contentedly.
Identifying
smells didn’t seem to be a very exciting gift, but if it was somehow related to
her visions . . .
Leila
glanced uneasily toward the fountain room—in the direction of the conservatory
and the apparent source of the whispering disruption below. What could the
scent of buoyancy mean?
Leila
leaned over to whisper in Felicity’s ear. “Did you invite more than one Ives?”
Still
holding out her gloved hand to the next guest, Felicity cast her a sidelong
glance. “I invited all of them. Should I not have?”
“Depends
on how much you wish your guests to talk about your first entertainment. I
think, perhaps, I ought to leave you in Maman’s capable hands while I
investigate.”
Felicity’s
eyes widened, but she said nothing as Leila flirted with the next gentleman in
line, caught up her skirts, and took his arm to descend to the ballroom as if
she’d planned it all along.
Once on
the main floor, she escaped in the direction of the fountain room. Before she
reached it, an iridescent bubble bumped her nose and popped. Another bubble
caught in the lace of her elbow-length sleeves, and a few more sparkled like
diamonds against her long gloves. Around her, shimmering clouds of tiny bubbles
rose on the breezes of the two-story ballroom, reflected in the mirrored walls,
and drifted upward on air heated by hundreds of candles.
Their
guests murmured in wonder and delight as the more observant among them elbowed
their way toward the source of this new entertainment. Leila didn’t have to
wonder. She knew.
She bit
back laughter and maneuvered her way through the crowd. She was quite certain
she had not smelled the buoyancy of bubbles. They smelled distinctly of soap.
She had no notion whatsoever what the dratted man was about, but she knew
precisely what she would find when she reached him.
Sweeping
into the small antechamber with its bubbling fountain of water circled by
velvet sofas, Leila fixed her sights on the broad green-clad shoulders and dark
hair rising above a crowd of bewigged gentlemen. Two more men with dark queues
had joined him, although how they’d entered without her notice Leila had no
notion.
The
fountain frothed with bubbles, and the spray lifted thousands more into the
warm air, where a breeze from the open conservatory door blew them toward the
ballroom. It was quite the most fascinating sight—except that everywhere she
looked, the bubbles popped against silk and left tiny iridescent water stains.
So far,
no one had noticed.
She
tapped her closed fan against a familiar broad back, and almost dissolved
beneath the brilliance of Dunstan’s grin when he turned to her. “This is your
idea of behaving?” she asked pertly.
“Mine,”
one of the younger, curly-haired Ives said proudly. “I thought Felicity would
enjoy it.”
“Joseph,
is it not?” Leila eyed him cautiously. “You’re the architect who designed my
uncle’s folly? I thought Ewen was the inventive one.”
Politely,
Dunstan didn’t touch her, but she felt as if he had. He stood close, wrapping
her with his awareness—and his buoyancy.
He was
actually enjoying himself! The real Dunstan Ives had emerged from his brooding
shell. For her? She thrilled to the idea.
“They
threw Ewen out of school for this trick,” Dunstan answered for his half
brother. “Joseph and David merely improved upon his concept.” Dunstan nodded to
the second Ives standing beyond Joseph. “They made certain the fountain
wouldn’t overflow and flood the ballroom as Ewen’s did.”
Taller
than Joseph, giving signs that he had inherited the same broad shoulders as
Dunstan, David colored but made a proper bow. “We have been trying to determine
if there was some way of pumping the waters in accompaniment with the music.”
“In
accompaniment with the music—of course.” Leila refrained from rolling her eyes,
and took Dunstan’s arm instead. “I shall be certain Felicity thanks you
appropriately when she is available. Might I borrow your brother for a moment?”
Before
following her, Dunstan caught his brothers’ attention. “Remember what I said
earlier. Keep your eyes and ears open. David, don’t leave Joseph’s sight. Don’t
flash that gaudy thing too much, just make certain the right people see it.”
For the
first time, Leila noticed the emerald pinned to the boy’s cravat. He reddened
at her look, but nodded at Dunstan’s orders.
“What are
you up to?” she whispered as Dunstan led her toward the conservatory. His size
allowed him to saunter through the crowd with ease. Men fell away as they
passed. Whispers followed in their wake, but he seemed supremely unaware of
them.
He
shrugged at her question. “Stirring trouble?”
“That
certainly ought to let all society know you’re back,” she said wryly as they
reached the open glass doors.
“I don’t
intend to hide. I must either go about as if I’ve done no wrong, or hang myself
from the chandelier to achieve public approbation,” he said, swinging her
through the open double doors and into the humidity of the indoor jungle.
“Did that
emerald belong to Celia?”
“One like
it. That one’s glass.” Dunstan caught a coil of her hair around his finger and
drew her toward him. “I don’t feel like a monkey in a suit when you’re around.
All I think about is you.”
She drank
in his words, knowing from the tense muscle jumping over his cheekbones that he
did not say them lightly. Perhaps he was feeling as light-headed and confused
as she was. “Will you dance with me later?” she whispered.
His mouth
relaxed into a smile when she did not laugh at his declaration. “I will, if you
make it a country dance,” he agreed. “I can manage that without crushing too
many feet. Did you know that your nephew frequented the same crowds as Celia?”
“No, but
I should have if she dallied with the likes of Wickham and Lord John. They’ve
been invited tonight. Who else is on your list?”
“Townsend,
and I imagine anyone else in that crowd. But there is no motive that we can
discern. Could she have been blackmailing someone?”
“I shall
speak disparagingly of Celia and see what happens,” Leila promised. “It’s one
thing to know I can smell fear, and quite another to figure out how to use that
knowledge. Watch closely and listen in, if you can.”
Dunstan
eyed her low-cut bodice and growled. “I’ll watch closely, no doubt, but not for
Celia’s sake. Do not smile too brightly at the louts, or I’ll be hard-pressed
not to tell the world you’re mine alone.”
His
possessiveness tugged at Leila’s heart, and she would have gasped at the
surprise of it had she not perceived the same startlement in Dunstan as the
words emerged from his mouth.
“I think
you know my smiles at any other man mean nothing,” she muttered.
“That’s
not been my experience with women, so don’t test me on it,” he warned. “I know
I have no right to place my claim on you, but I’m not strong in logic at the
moment.”
She
understood. Primitive feelings warred in her breast as well, feelings that
neither of them dared act upon, as he had warned. “Did you love Celia?” she
whispered, entirely against her will.
Dunstan
froze for a moment, then leaned against a table. An orchid trailed across his
forehead, and he brushed it away. “I doubt I know the meaning of love,” he
answered carefully. “Celia was lovely, enchanting. She was like a beautiful
butterfly that couldn’t be pinned down. I had some odd notion that if I set her
free, she would see the world for what it was and come back to me.”
Leila
heard the self-disgust in his voice. “You loved her,” she said with conviction,
having seen him with his son and understanding his enormous capacity for that
emotion. “You loved her, you gave up your son for her, and she betrayed you.
But those who love and respect you will never betray you as she did. Trust us.”
Nervous at revealing far more than she’d intended, Leila straightened a pin in
her hair and adjusted the silver butterfly adorning it. “They’re preparing for
the first dance. Behave, and I’ll find you later.”
Dazed,
Dunstan let her escape, standing at the conservatory entrance to watch Leila’s
ebony hair soar past all the commonplace whites and grays around her. Even the
brilliance of her midnight-blue gown seemed to outshine the pallid pinks and
greens of the other guests, and something deep within his chest stirred and
woke. He had very little comprehension of society’s idea of female perfection,
but amazingly, Leila satisfied his every definition. Pride that she had chosen
him above all others suffused him with confidence.
Swallowing
a large lump in his throat as he considered Leila’s parting words, Dunstan
stared at the brilliant chandeliers smoking with pleasant aromas in the next
room. Could his guilt over letting Celia die actually be the guilt of having
lost one he once loved?
He would
have to be soft inside to have loved Celia, even for a short time, yet he had
perceived his feelings as love. And he wasn’t a soft man, was he? Leila was
daft to suggest it.
No, she
wasn’t. Leila could see right through him, painful as that was to admit.
Joseph
and David crept back to see if he’d survived his encounter with Leila
unscathed, and Dunstan offered them a wry shrug. “Still have the skin on my
back. Go fight over Felicity. I’ll be fine.”
His
illegitimate half brothers had grown up in London, and possessed the town
polish of their sophisticated mother, but not the advantage of marriage lines
to give them names. Dunstan was grateful for the Malcolm eccentricity that had
allowed them to be here. He supposed he ought to show his gratitude in other
ways.
Refraining
from dropping cigars on the feet of pompous asses would be a start. He was torn
between wanting to stay out of sight so as not to taint the ball with the
stigma of his black reputation and wanting to parade about the ballroom to show
he had nothing to fear. The latter had the advantage of allowing him to keep an
eye on Leila.
His
concern for the lady won the battle.
Marching
back to the fountain room, Dunstan silenced a whispering twit by glowering down
at him from his lofty height, sauntered past a gaggle of Leila’s suitors with a
hauteur that had them stepping out of his way, and stalked into the spinning
glitter of dancers in the main room.
Leila had
taught him that he had nothing to be ashamed of if he preferred pigs and sheep
to society’s entertainment. He was a farmer, and if society didn’t like what
they saw, that was their loss and none of his. Seeing the glittering company as
individuals instead of objects to be despised had a freeing effect on him.
He
shrugged off any lingering anxiety and waded into the crowd. Music poured
around him in accompaniment with the swirl of skirts and laughter. The heavy
perfumes of hundreds of people pressed into the same warm room thickened as he
proceeded deeper into the crush. Powdered and bewigged men whispered behind his
back. Ladies in enormous swaying panniers tittered behind their fans and
followed his progress with their gazes. Towering over most of them, Dunstan
would once have felt awkward. Tonight, he had only one thought—his height
allowed him to find Leila in the crowd.
A slow
smile curved his mouth as he located her stack of dark curls in the center of
the dancing. Measuring Leila’s exotic features against the classic perfection
of other women, he supposed she was more striking than beautiful, but her
glowing character lit her from within.
Dunstan
stuck his hand in his pocket and leaned one shoulder against a fluted pillar.
He smiled for Leila’s sake when she flung him a laughing glance.
He had no
reason to believe she wore her hair unpowdered just for him, no more than he
had reason to believe she laughed more gaily or glittered more brilliantly for
his benefit. But the way her gaze sought him out gave him the confidence to
believe she did.
Keeping
her in sight, he relaxed and turned his powers of observation on the rest of
the crowd. He noted the entrance of Lord John Albemarle and the young Viscount
Staines before Leila was aware of it. They escorted a woman Dunstan recognized
as Lord John’s sister, Lady Mary. Behind them followed Henry Wickham, looking
disdainful.
Dunstan
watched his elegant enemy whisper into the ear of another gentleman, observed
with interest the way murmurs rippled through the crowd wherever the foursome
walked—knew when he gradually became the focus of every gaze within their
vicinity.
Dunstan
had no quarrel with the Malcolms, and he sincerely liked shy Felicity. He
didn’t want to disturb the child’s first ball. But hell would freeze over
before he let maggots like those four malign his family and tarnish his
reputation with their lies.
Grimly,
he shoved away from the post and plowed straight through the crowd in the
direction of the troublemakers.
No more
hiding out, licking his wounds. He might not care about himself, but he was
prepared to fight for those he loved.
Leila’s nose for trouble twitched, but she couldn’t break away from the
dancing without causing concern and disruption.
Trying
not to panic, searching for Dunstan through the swirl of dancers, she survived
the final steps of the dance, curtsied to her partner, and instantly swung
toward the entrance.
Her
breath caught at the sight of Dunstan offering his arm to the insipid Lady
Mary.
She’d
never suffered a moment’s jealousy in her life, but flaming arrows of fury shot
through her breast now. At the same time, the scent of calamity rose from
across the ballroom. Glancing around, she realized she wasn’t the only one who
sensed danger.
Aunt
Stella appeared in the doorway leading to the gaming rooms. The duchess always
knew what was happening and who was involved.
Leila’s
mother fluttered nervously toward Felicity, shooing her in the direction of the
supper room.
With a
sigh of resignation, Leila noted that both Joseph and David Ives had
miraculously appeared from wherever they’d been hiding. Violence simmered in
the air.
As
Dunstan descended the stairs with Lady Mary, Wickham stared daggers after them.
Lord John appeared on the verge of apoplexy, and Staines seemed slightly
bewildered.
If Leila
could have been certain the ballroom wouldn’t burst into flames from the
mounting tension, she would have watched the coming confrontation almost with
anticipation.
But
flames seemed the most likely result. Gathering her skirts, she sailed toward
Dunstan and his companions, cursing the musicians who struck up a country dance
just before she reached them. She would kick the obstinate Ives for fomenting
rebellion, but the music carried him away from her. In retaliation, she caught
Wickham’s arm.
“You’re
late,” she reprimanded him. “I saved this dance for you.”
Looking
startled and just enough off balance for Leila to lead him into the dance,
Wickham glanced from Lady Mary to Dunstan and back to Leila. He smiled slowly.
“My pleasure, my lady.”
The steps
of the dance did not leave her in his company for long. She landed in the arms
of young Joseph Ives for a lengthy swing. “Keep Felicity occupied,” she hissed
at him as they circled together. “I’ll deal with your brother.”
“You’ll
be the first one who could deal with him, then,” Joseph warned. “Rampaging
bulls have more restraint than Dunstan when his temper rises.”
“It’s not
aroused yet,” she assured him, before swirling away to her next partner.
She
linked arms with Dunstan in the allemande—just long enough to catch a strong
whiff of his jealousy. She shot him a warning look, which he ignored with a
smirk.
The man
was jealous. Over her? Simply because she danced with Wickham as he
danced with Lady Mary?
She’d
stirred an Ives to an irrational emotion! Dunstan’s proprietary attitude made
her feel—desired? Powerful? And deuced annoyed that he still thought her no
better than Celia.
The music
brought her back to Wickham before she could think of any magic spells with
which to cast all men to Hades.
“Perhaps
we should retreat to the balcony for fresh air after this invigorating dance?”
Wickham inquired as the musicians plucked the last note.
She could
better smell his intentions in the open air. Or drive Dunstan from mischievous
to dangerous in a matter of seconds.
“No,
thank you,” she answered, trying not to glance around too obviously. Where was
the damned man? She still sniffed danger. “I must see to our other guests.”
With a
gesture of dismissal, she turned away, only to bump directly into Lord John.
Foreboding permeated the air around him. “I did not expect you to show your
face, sir,” she said coldly, sweeping her skirts away from him.
“I am the
innocent here, my lady,” he protested. “You are the one who invites murderers
to accost my sister.”
Damn
Dunstan. Just what was he up to? And where?
Raising
her chin so she must look down on the arrogant young lord, Leila regarded him
with hauteur. “If there is a murderer here, sir, I wish you would point him out
to me. I’ve seen no evidence of one.” Lifting her heavy silk, she nodded
regally at a lady beyond his shoulder. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have
other guests.”
Lord John
grabbed her elbow and whispered in her ear before she could escape. “I’d
suggest you strive to find my company more to your liking, my lady. Your nephew
may soon become part of my family, and I can make both your lives exceedingly
unpleasant if you do not act with a tad less condescension.”
She
gifted the puppy with a look of scorn. “I believe you mistake me for Celia
Ives,” she said, startling even herself with the comparison. “I suggest you
find someone who is more your kind to terrorize. I’ll not let you blackmail the
boy into marrying just so you might live off him like the leech you are.”
Now that
Staines had been brought to her attention, Leila searched the room for him.
Instead, she discovered Dunstan bearing down on them with menace written across
his taut jaw. She almost laughed at the odor of cowardice emanating from the
young lord, who abruptly released her elbow.
Dunstan
halted in front of them before Lord John could escape. Although he clasped his
big fists behind his elegantly garbed back, the set of his jaw alone was
menacing. “Her grace commands your presence, my lady,” he intoned without
inflection. His gaze fixed challengingly upon Lord John even as he spoke to
Leila.
“I
daresay if she did, she also commanded yours,” Leila replied wryly. “So which
battle do you wish to commence first, hers or yours?”
With a
wicked gleam, Dunstan offered his arm. “Malcolm women frighten me far more than
this insect.” He didn’t even glance back at Lord John as he added, “We’ll meet
another time, sir. Your sister awaits you on the balcony.”
Covering
her hand with his own, Dunstan dragged Leila through the crowd of curious
onlookers, toward the anteroom where her aunt waited.
Dunstan’s
large stature provided an easy target for slanderous tongues, but he shielded
her from them as he escorted her through the throng. Leila had no doubt that he
would defend her with his last breath, should it come to that.
She
patted his arm. “You are a very admirable man, Dunstan Ives. I do not have your
courage and fortitude, but I shall attempt to learn them. I’m certain those
qualities would benefit our daughter.”
Unwilling
to admit any more than that, Leila sailed forward to greet her aunt, leaving
Dunstan stunned. He couldn’t dismiss the pride she’d instilled in him with her
words. He’d always had some inkling of his own worth, but Celia had called him
cold, and his mother had recommended humility.
Lady
Leila apparently wished to imitate him.
He didn’t
think that a wise resolve. Rather than ponder her meaning, he concentrated on
the ladies’ argument.
“You
endanger yourself and all around you with this investigation, Leila,” Stella
admonished her niece. “Take your Ives and his ways back to the country where
they belong, and let us find the villain on our own.”
“Lord
John has some hold over Staines. I could smell it on him,” Leila argued. “I
can’t leave now. They’re all part of the crowd Celia frequented. One of them
could have killed her, and they could harm Staines as well.”
“Nonsense.
Your nephew is busy preening and playing the gallant. He’s perfectly safe. Go
back to your gardens.”
“Until we
clear Dunstan’s name, I will go nowhere.”
While
admiring Leila’s willingness to stand up to her powerful aunt, Dunstan
preferred she didn’t go so far in his defense. Gently catching her elbow, he
steered her out of the path of her aunt’s ire. He did not fully understand the
duchess’s Malcolm power, but he did not trust any Malcolm in a temper.
Sometimes they did not know the full extent of their own abilities and came to
grief for it. He’d not have anyone harmed because of him.
“You owe
me a dance, my lady, but nothing more,” he said. “My brothers and I will
conduct our own search without endangering others.”
“Your
brothers!” Leila whirled around, not heeding his warning. “Find them at once. I
need them to watch Wickham and Lord John.”
Dunstan
groaned as the duchess ruffled her regal feathers and looked prepared to bite.
She would turn them all into peacocks in a moment.
“Your
grace, I’ll take care of this,” he assured the older woman. “I believe the lady
is my responsibility now.”
He
thought the duchess looked approving as he directed Leila out of the room.
Unfortunately, the termagant on his arm wasn’t quite so understanding.
“I am not
your responsibility,” she insisted, even as she followed him. “If anything, we
are equals in this. I can certainly deal with my aunt far better than you.”
“No, you
can’t. The two of you will soon be fighting like cocks over who’s in charge of
the henhouse. Take a lesson from Ninian and let the duchess believe she is.”
She eyed
him with disfavor. “An astute observation from a man who talks to plants.”
“At least
the plants have the sense not to talk back. There’s Joseph. Where are Wickham
and Lord John now?”
She
halted, forcing him to do the same. Patiently, Dunstan waited while she glanced
around, although he suspected she wasn’t looking so much as smelling what the
air carried. The back of his neck prickled at that realization. He was involved
with a woman who could smell a thief at a hundred yards. Maybe farther. He
would have to test the theory.
“Wickham
and Lord John have not left. I daresay they’re in one of the anterooms,
fomenting trouble. I do not at all understand what they’re about—”
“I’ve
talked to Lady Mary,” Dunstan interrupted. “She and her brother will hold their
gossiping tongues from here on out.” Looking elegant and unconcerned, Dunstan
shoved his hand in his pocket and scanned the crowd in search of his brothers.
“You’ve
talked to Lady Mary?” Leila could almost summon a vision of the scene from his
scent of satisfaction. “What did you do, threaten to tar and feather her?”
“I simply
reminded her that I have not called in her gaming debts to Celia.”
“What
gaming debts?” Leila asked in astonishment, then understanding the depth of his
scent of satisfaction, she cried, “You didn’t know she had gaming debts!
You bluffed.”
“That
crowd gambles,” he said with a shrug, focusing on the approach of an unpowdered
dark head. “Celia always cheated. It was a reasonable assumption.”
Before
Leila could respond, Joseph arrived, dragging a terrified Viscount Staines with
him. “Tell him what you told me,” Joseph demanded, shaking the lordling’s arm.
“I . . .
It’s W-Wickham,” the young viscount stuttered. “And Lord John. They have a
witness.”
Dunstan
fought a surge of panic by crossing his arms and waiting, staring the boy down
with what he hoped was a formidable glare.
Staines
shot a pleading gaze at Leila. “I only wanted you to marry so I could have my
estate back,” he muttered. “And Henry Wickham is a good sort. He would make you
a far better husband than this murderer.” He shot Dunstan a bitter look.
“Wickham
is a nasty toad, and you’ll get warts just breathing the air around him,” Leila
retorted. “And if you marry Lord John’s witch of a sister, she’ll bake you in
her oven and turn you into a gingerbread boy.”
Beneath
his powdered wig, the young viscount paled, but tearing his arm from Joseph’s
grip, he straightened his spine and glared back. “At least I do not consort
with known killers. Wickham has located a witness to Celia’s murder, just as he
said he would. He and Lord John are to meet him at the inn in Baden-on-Lyme in
the morning. They mean to see Dunstan hang.”
Dunstan
fought to keep his hands to himself rather than wring the truth from the boy.
“If this is another of your practical jokes, Staines, I’ll dangle you from the
Tower wall.”
“It’s not
a joke.” The viscount looked terrified again, and his gaze darted about,
searching for his friends. Then, confident no one could overhear, he continued.
“I’m to go with them. Wickham says that your brother is the magistrate there,
and he will never arrest you, so I am to act as witness and come back here to
have you arrested.”
Although
music flowed and the voices of a hundred people filled the air, Dunstan heard
the tolling bells of doom. For Leila’s sake, he blocked them out. “Use your
wits, Staines. Until you do, Wickham will use you. If you’ll excuse me,
I mean to find out what they’re up to for myself.”
Nodding
at his stunned audience, Dunstan swung around and stalked toward the door.
Leila didn’t know where the damned man thought he was going, but she
didn’t intend for him to go alone. She would never believe Wickham’s witness
over Dunstan’s innocence.
But
before she could run after him, she had to clean up the mess he’d left behind.
“Joseph, notify Drogo at once. Have your brother follow Wickham and Lord John.
Staines, unless you wish to be leg-shackled to a witch far worse than me, you’d
best hie yourself back to Bath and stay out of this. For once in your life,
listen to your elders, will you?”
Satisfied
she’d terrified her nephew enough to make him listen and that Joseph already
hastened to do as he’d been told, Leila sailed after the wretched Dunstan.
“You
don’t really believe that any witness Wickham has found is legitimate, do you?”
she called down the stairs from the hall outside the ballroom.
Having
already reached the second-floor landing, Dunstan merely glanced over his
shoulder. “I intend to find out.” He continued taking the stairs down to the
street two at a time.
“They’re
plotting something, Dunstan,” she shouted, lifting her skirts and racing after
him. “Don’t fall into it.” When he did not halt, Leila flung her fan at his
broad back. “Unless you wish to see me tumble down these stairs, you’d better
slow down!”
That brought
him to a halt. He turned and planted his massive arms on either side of the
stairs to prevent her passing. “Go back to your family,” he ordered. “I want
you to have no part in this.”
“I am
part of it!” Ducking beneath his elbow, she hurried out of hearing of any
bystanders. “You’re the father of this child I carry,” she whispered in
seething anger. “Don’t tell me I’m not part of you.”
“I’ll not
have you harmed by their trickery. I’ll get to the bottom of it.” He clattered
past her, blocking any fall she might take as they raced down the last stairs.
Halting
in the shadows of the foyer, whispering so the waiting footmen couldn’t hear,
Leila smacked a fist of frustration against his broad chest. “Don’t do
this, Dunstan. Let us work together and find the truth.”
The man
reeked of self-doubt and anger and a scent that she longed to believe but
couldn’t. Every bone in her body ached to take him in her arms and tell him how
much she loved him. But if even she was terrified by these newly
discovered emotions, what might revealing them do to this man, who seemed so
bent on self-destruction?
“I will
do nothing dangerous,” Dunstan promised. “I mean only to find this witness and
hear his story. If I killed Celia in a drunken rage, I need to know it.”
“You
would never do such a thing,” she told him. “If you truly believed in my
abilities, you would trust me in this.”
He
hesitated, and Leila held her breath, hoping, praying that he would have
confidence in her. Despair whipped through her when he shook his head.
“We may
both be sensing only what we want to believe. I cannot take the risk. I need
time to figure out what to do if the witness is right.”
Fury
swept through her with the force of a wildfire. Drawing back from him, Leila
all but spat in his face. “What if one of them is Celia’s killer? What if they
lie in wait to kill you?”
He froze
and regarded her with wariness. “Did you smell something on them that you have
not told me? Have you had another vision?”
He
believed in her.
“The
circumstances must be right for me to see anything. I do not know how to make
it happen. But I know you didn’t kill her. It only seems reasonable to conclude
that one of her friends must have.”
“Or a
common thief who broke in to steal her jewels. Stay with your family where you
are safe. I’ll look after myself.” His hands formed fists and his voice was
harsh, but his gaze upon her was infinitely sad.
She
wanted his trust, not his regret, and he wasn’t giving it to her. Furious, she
backed away from him. “Go, then. But do not expect me to do as you wish,
either. If we cannot act together, then I am free to act alone.”
“Leila,
I’m counting on you not to do anything foolish. Your family needs you.”
“Your
family will need me, too, if you insist on playing the part of braying donkey.
Don’t concern yourself over your son,” she added scornfully. “Griffith will
only be devastated if you insist on sacrificing yourself on the altar of
self-pity. I’ll see that my family gives him a little more guidance than yours
has.”
She
watched Dunstan’s big body jerk as if she’d truly pierced him, but he wasn’t a
man to bow to a woman’s words. His long, dark queue fell over his shoulder as
he bent his head and brushed his hand against her cheek. She prayed he didn’t
find the tear streaking toward her chin.
“Thank you.”
Without
another word of warning or explanation, he strode past the footman at the door
and into the street.
Desperate
to follow him but knowing she mustn’t do so without aid, she turned back to
glance up the stairs and discovered her whole blue-eyed, blond-haired family
hovering on the landing above.
Interfering,
manipulative witches they might be, but she loved the way they banded together
in times of need.
With joy,
she understood that they banded together for her, because they accepted
and loved her just the way she was. Flying up the stairs and into her mother’s
arms, she poured out the problem while the music of Felicity’s ball soared
above them.
“Staines
and Lord John left with Lady Mary,” Christina reported, rushing into the family
parlor where everyone waited.
Crashing
past a footman who was attempting to prevent his entrance into the parlor,
Joseph Ives shoved his way into the family conclave. “I can’t find Viscount
Handel or Henry Wickham,” he announced, “but David is following Lord John.”
Behind
him sauntered Joseph’s older half brother, Ewen, accompanied by Dunstan’s son.
Leila wished she could reach out and reassure the worried boy, but Griffith’s
expression was as closed as Dunstan’s at his worst.
Even
Ewen’s normally charming mien looked grim as he took in the gathering of
Malcolms in one glance. “Drogo isn’t home. No one knows where he is.”
Leila
uttered a foul curse under her breath. As magistrate over Baden, the Earl of
Ives was Dunstan’s best hope of staying out of prison. “Find him,” she ordered.
“He’ll
find us,” Ewen countered. “Griffith and I are riding out to Baden tonight.” He
turned to meet Leila’s gaze. “Is there any message you wish me to carry?”
“That
I’ll have Dunstan’s head on a platter for shutting me out,” she answered with
mocking sweetness. “Wickham and his dastardly tricks do not alarm me, but tell
your noble brother I’ll personally rip all his turnips out of the ground if he
thinks to desert me.”
“Please,
Mr. Ives.”
To
Leila’s surprise, Felicity interrupted them. Even Ewen looked startled as he
turned his full attention on her younger sister.
“I’m
certain the secret lies in Celia’s jewels.” Felicity twisted her gloved hands
together and regarded him with an earnest expression. “If you could find the
green jewel, it would help tremendously.”
Her offer
produced a genuine look of concern from the normally careless Ives. “We’re
making every effort, Lady Felicity. And I almost forgot, I brought you a gift
in honor of your come-out.” From the capacious pocket of his coat, Ewen produced
a miniature mechanical toy and held it out for her.
Leila
held her breath as her sensitive sister gazed on the tiny bouquet of enameled
roses with longing. With one gentle finger, Felicity reached out to caress the
toy. Then, smiling rapturously, she accepted the gift, touching off a pin that
produced a tinkling cascade of music.
“Oh, my!”
she exclaimed, holding the roses in the palm of her hand. “It’s marvelous.
Thank you so very much. How does it play?”
Watching
the roses dance on her glove with fascination, Ewen shrugged and tore his gaze
away. “Bits of metal turning around. I need to work on the gears some more. But
the flowers last longer than real ones.”
Leila
doubted if the heedless Ives had any idea how unusual is was for her sister to
accept objects from virtual strangers. She would ponder the oddity another
time. Dunstan occupied her thoughts too fully now.
Admiring
her unusual gift, Felicity looked dazed, but Ewen merely nodded at Leila, bowed
his farewell to her mother, and strode out, accompanied by his brothers.
Leila
frowned as Christina slipped out with the Ives men, but the younger ones
apparently knew each other well. She glanced apologetically to Felicity. “I’m
sorry, dear, but I have to leave you on your own. I can’t lose to stupidity the
best, most boneheaded agronomist who ever lived!”
The
duchess managed to look both imperious and uncertain. “There is no chance that
he is truly a wife murderer?” she demanded.
“None,
Aunt Stella. You have my word and Ninian’s. Both of us cannot be wrong.”
“Then we
must go on as if nothing has happened.” Stella tugged her sister’s lace
neckerchief back into place. “Come along, Hermione, Felicity, we will be
missed.” Frowning, she glanced about. “Where is Christina? Lord Harry will be
looking for her.”
“Lord
Harry left earlier,” Felicity whispered, throwing Leila a glance, then
following her aunt toward the door. “Perhaps Christina has gone to find him.”
Leila
sighed in relief as her shy sister diverted the attention of their mother and
aunt, and they returned to the safety of the ballroom.
Sweeping
past the footman at the door, seeing no sign of either Ives or Christina in the
hall, she fled to her chamber to change from her ball gown into traveling
clothes.
Leila
slipped down the back hall, away from the laughing, chattering guests departing
at the front. She’d donned her blacks again, to better hide in shadows.
She
couldn’t wait until the ball ended, not if Dunstan and the others were already
on the road to Baden.
She knew
that this so-called witness must be part of an evil plot. She simply could not
imagine how the villains planned to perpetrate it, or why. Or even who the
villains were. Wickham might have become deranged with grief over the
loss of his brother, but he’d had no reason to murder Celia.
Leila
gasped as a shadow darted out of a gateway and fell into step beside her. She
would have thought it another young Ives were it not for the scent. “Christina!
What on earth are you wearing?”
“Breeches,”
her sister replied. “It is the safest way to travel. You really ought to try
it. The freedom is wonderful.”
“I do not
have the time or presence of mind to reprimand you and explain why you’re mad
to go about like that. Go home, where you belong.” Reaching the side street,
Leila gathered her skirts and hastened toward the waiting carriage.
“I’ll
ride beside the driver. Moonlight isn’t enough for him, but I can see even
better at night. Lots of things have auras.”
“Only
living things have auras,” Leila argued, but her sister was already stopping to
talk with a gentleman who was opening the carriage door. She squinted in the
darkness to discern the man’s identity. “Lord Handel?” she asked in surprise.
He bowed.
“Lady Leila. I tried to catch Dunstan before he departed, but he was too far
ahead of me. Would you know how I might get a message to him tonight?”
The man’s
heady perfume covered a scent of anxiety and concern. She was learning to sort
scents and pay more attention. Biting her lip against her fear, Leila nodded.
“I am following him to Baden. What may I tell him?”
Handel
studied her, then apparently concluded she meant well. “Sir Barton Townsend
argued with young David Ives over a rather large gem he wore in his cravat this
evening. The baron then spoke with Henry Wickham and Lord John. I could hear only
part of the conversation, but it seems the stone greatly resembles one that
Celia Ives flaunted frequently. Sir Barton seemed to be accusing the other two
of lying to him, but I could not catch more than that.”
“And what
has this to do with Dunstan?” she asked.
“I cannot
say for certain, but I followed Wickham to a pawnshop not far from here. The
shopkeeper would not let me in after Wickham left, so I could not question him.
I’ll do so in the morning. If you would just relay the message?”
“I
shall.”
If, that
is, she caught up with the wretched Ives before he got himself killed.
Still in
his fashionable evening clothes, Dunstan arrived in Baden-on-Lyme just before
dawn. Cursing the haste that prevented him from changing into more suitable
attire, he swung down off the horse he’d borrowed from Drogo’s stable and
handed the reins over to a sleepy groom.
The hairs
on the back of his neck prickled as he stared up at the aging inn where Celia
had been found with her neck snapped. Once upon a time he had come here
regularly to drown his sorrows in the tavern. They knew him here. The
innkeeper’s livelihood depended on Drogo and the Ives estate. That alone should
keep them silent.
But did
their silence hide an ugly truth?
Striding
up the stairs into the inn, he prepared to face the consequences of whatever
had occurred the night of Celia’s death.
He found
the lobby empty and unlit. Taking a bench in the tavern that most suited his
breadth, he found a hollow in the wall that fit his shoulders, sprawled his
legs across the wooden bench to a chair beyond, and closed his eyes.
He woke
to a slash of sunlight across his eyelids, a cock crowing, and the unsettling
sensation of people staring at him. A crick in his neck told him he wasn’t in
his bed, and the nervous twisting of his stomach reminded him of the night
past. Setting his jaw, Dunstan donned his most stubborn expression and opened
his eyes.
He
recognized the local constable first. Gray-haired and portly, the man twisted
his hat between his fingers.
Dunstan
swallowed a lump of fear at the memory of waking up this same way the morning
after Celia’s death. At least this time he did not wake with an aching head.
Twisting
his stiff neck slightly to the left, Dunstan registered Henry Wickham’s sneer.
No surprise there. Beyond Wickham stood a third man—a simpleton who did odd
jobs around the village. Dunstan had given the boy a coin or two upon occasion
to watch his horse. The lad was harmless enough, and not smart enough to lie,
but he might be susceptible to suggestion.
Shoving
away from the wall, Dunstan stood, towering over all of them. He experienced a
twinge of satisfaction when the effete Wickham backed off. Attempting to look
nonchalant, Dunstan glanced down at his fancy evening coat, brushed off some of
the travel dirt, then raised an inquiring eyebrow at the constable. “You have
something you wish to say?”
“I’m
sorry, sir. There’s an inquiry ’as been made. I’m to ask if you know to whom
this here button belongs.” The constable held out a glittering gold button with
the Ives coat of arms embossed upon it.
Only one
person in the world had been foolish enough to revive that ancient insignia.
Celia. She’d discovered it with a childish cry of delight and immediately
ordered it attached to every piece of paraphernalia her imagination could
dictate—including the buttons of her mantle.
Dunstan
experienced a burning sensation in the back of his eyes as he remembered Celia
flashing her gold buttons in the sunlight, laughing with pleasure.
They’d
carried her body home in that mantle the day she died.
Dunstan
clenched his fists and met the constable’s eyes squarely. “My late wife had
buttons similar to that. Where did you find it?”
Outside,
horses clattered and wheels squeaked, signaling the arrival of a carriage in
the yard. Feminine cries distracted his audience. They turned as one to look
out the wavy panes of the bow window.
Apparently
too impatient to wait for a footman to pull down the steps of the coach, a lady
in black threw open the door and leapt down.
A lady
in black. Dunstan
swore a silent curse as the renewed pain of Celia’s death mixed with
humiliation and shame. If the worst happened and they proved he’d killed Celia,
he wanted to remember Leila laughing and dancing and flashing him a taunting
smile in a fancy ballroom. He didn’t want her here.
“Where
did you get the button?” Dunstan repeated harshly, forcing the others to tear
their gazes from the window.
He heard
Leila enter the foyer, heard the imperious command of her voice to the
innkeeper, and wished himself to the devil. More male voices joined the
argument. He thought he recognized Lord John’s, but not the others.
He
scowled at the constable, who gulped and hurried to speak.
“Paulie
’ere says as you gave it to ’im the night the lady died. Paulie isn’t much of
one for lyin’.” The constable watched him hopefully, waiting for an
explanation.
Paulie
had a button wrenched from Celia’s mantle. Before the day of Celia’s death, Dunstan
hadn’t been near his wife or her clothing in months. But he’d given the
button to Paulie.
He’d been
beyond furious that night. He’d had a man’s blood on his hands because of her.
She had laughed. Could he have reached for her? Ripped the button off?
Dunstan
took a deep breath as he sensed Leila’s entrance. For her sake, and that of his
children, he couldn’t believe himself capable of violence. “I was drunk when I
saw her last, as I’ve told you,” he replied coldly. “She could have thrown the
thing at me for all I remember.” He didn’t remember her throwing anything, but
then he didn’t remember her dying not twenty feet away from him either.
“You give
it to me when you woke up,” Paulie said excitedly. “It was in your hand,
’member?”
“There
was buttons tore off the lady’s cloak,” the constable confirmed. “P’raps they
came off and you found ’em at ’ome?”
“I would
have left them at home if so.” Celia hadn’t been home to lose them there.
Dunstan struggled to remain calm in the face of the evidence against him. Celia
hadn’t been wearing a cloak when he’d seen her, had she?
The
constable watched Dunstan, his brow crumpled in worry. “She was wearin’ the
cloak when we found her dead, sir.”
Crushed
between guilt and doubt on one side and fear for Leila on the other, Dunstan
sought a way to end this humiliating scene, but he wasn’t an imaginative man
and couldn’t think like a murderer. “Celia wasn’t wearing a cloak when I saw
her,” he replied.
From the
doorway, the stout innkeeper stepped forward, twisting his thick fingers in his
apron. “She were wearin’ it when we looked up to see why a door come flyin’
down the stairs, milord. She stood there in the doorway, laughin’ her head
off.”
Still
refusing to look at the woman in the entrance, Dunstan bit back a hasty retort
and worded his reply carefully. “She couldn’t have been. I was in her way.”
“Warn’t
no sign of you, milord, although we’d heard you bellerin’ earlier, the ways you
do.”
“Then I
must have already left.” But he couldn’t remember leaving. And he’d been found
in the hall just outside her door. Surely someone would have seen him leave?
“She was
talkin’ to you when she turned around and went back in the room.” The innkeeper
wouldn’t look Dunstan in the eye. “She was wearin’ a big green necklace when I
seed her last. She warn’t wearin’ it when we found her dead.”
“He
murdered her in a violent fit of jealousy, Constable,” Wickham said with
satisfaction. “He killed my brother, and now we have proof he killed his wife
as well. I should imagine if you search his house, you’ll find Celia’s necklace
there.”
Dunstan’s
empty stomach clenched at this new information. Celia always wore gaudy
jewelry. He never noticed such things, but in all likelihood she’d been wearing
the gems when he’d seen her. Could robbery have been the motive? How the hell
would he find out?
“Wickham
is a coward and a liar!” Leila cried from the doorway. “Dunstan would never
harm a soul.”
He didn’t
want her involved in this. He’d ruined her reputation enough as it was. If she
tried defending him now or using her witchy talents to hunt for murderers, she
would only endanger herself and the child.
Dunstan
finally allowed himself a glance at the woman who had given him something so
beautiful he could place no name upon it. “Leila, go back to your family and
stay out of it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire, but he knew she was listening.
“Let me handle this my way.”
“You
don’t know what evil they’ve plotted,” she protested.
“It’s not
your concern,” he answered, willing her to heave things at him and leave in a
huff. But his Leila was above Celia’s histrionics. When she merely looked
stubborn, he turned back to the constable.
“Lady
Leila is an excellent judge of character. You would do well to listen to her
and not to a man who wears hatred like a cross. Look after her, and I will do
whatever you request.”
“I’ll
send for the earl,” the constable said anxiously. “He’ll know what’s best to
do.” Throwing Leila a worried look, the burly man caught Dunstan’s elbow and
led him past her to the door.
“We’re
sending for a London magistrate,” Wickham cried. “The earl cannot judge his own
brother.”
“Go home,
Leila,” Dunstan whispered as she lifted terrified eyes to his. “I will do
nothing until you leave.”
Ignoring
the grief and hurt in her expression, he strode out without a backward look.
Rage warred with terror in her breast, but Leila would not give Wickham
the satisfaction of seeing either. Facing his knowing smirk, she drew herself
up haughtily. “You are a vile coward, sir. If you have some grievance with
Dunstan, you should call him out in a fair fight. Hiding behind the words of a
simpleton is the mark of a villain.”
“Ives
doesn’t know the meaning of a fair fight.” The voice came from behind her.
Leila
swung around as Lord John entered the tavern, followed by Sir Barton.
Remembering that Dunstan’s brothers had promised to follow them, she glanced
beyond the door. Joseph Ives was there, lounging in a chair in the hall. He
looked tired, dusty, and disgusted. He’d apparently heard more than enough. She
judged from his balled-up fists that he was feeling as frustrated as she was.
In her
pocket lay the vial of perfume she’d made for Lord John. She fingered the small
glass tube, wishing she could think how to make use of it.
She
wanted to order Joseph to stay with Dunstan, but the smell of triumph and
wickedness distracted her. She could not apply the scents to the facts she
knew. She could smell guilt, but no doubt these men were guilty of many things.
“How
would you know if Dunstan fights fair?” she demanded of the handsome man who
had once courted her. “Were you there the day George pointed a pistol at
Dunstan? He never carries a weapon, so do not tell me that was fair.”
Lord
John’s smug look only heightened her fury. She had to escape this room. Bile
rose in her throat at the stenches emanating from these roaches her nephew
called friends. She couldn’t remember ever being so physically attacked by
smell like this. Her head spun, and she couldn’t think.
“Staines
was supposed to be here, not you. What did you do to delay his arrival?”
Wickham asked, distracting her before she could push past Sir Barton and leave
the room.
“I spoke
to him in a foreign language called the truth,” she replied, maintaining her
composure. If they expected her nephew to act as witness to this farce so he
might run for a London judge, Leila was relieved he’d stayed away. But what
would happen now? The constable had said he would notify the magistrate, but no
one knew where Drogo was.
“Staines
is a fool to listen to women.” Wickham shrugged and appropriated a bench by the
fire, calling for an ale and some breakfast. “Come speak softly to me, and I’ll
see if I can persuade your nephew to leave your pretty flowers alone.”
Without
Dunstan to stop him, Staines could run amok through her fields if he chose. The
servants would not stand in the way of the man-child who controlled the estate’s
future.
She’d
been a fool to place her land first, over a man who was worth far more.
That
error she could correct, if the arrogant Ives would let her.
“May you
spend your nights in a bed of thorns,” she replied sweetly, before pivoting on
her heel and marching out of the tavern. Joseph Ives had disappeared from the
hall, she noted. She prayed he had gone to Dunstan.
Loud
voices raised in argument in the stable yard drew her attention. If she did not
mistake, one voice belonged to Christina in a temper.
“I will
not listen to a man whose aura changes color with every passing moment,”
Christina was shouting as Leila stepped outside. “It’s like making sense of a
rainbow.”
“A woman
in breeches is an open invitation to scandal,” Ewen shouted back. “We don’t have
time to watch over both you and Dunstan. Go back where you belong.”
Standing
aside, mouth agape, Dunstan’s son listened to the senseless argument. At
Leila’s arrival, Griffith looked relieved and darted a worried glance toward
the stable.
“Stop it,
both of you!” Leila stepped between them. “I have enough to worry about without
the two of you scrapping like children. Dunstan needs all of us. If you can’t
work together, go home.”
“Lord
John’s aura is murky, but Wickham’s is decidedly black,” Christina declared
with urgency. “I watched him through the window.”
“You said
Dunstan’s aura was black, too,” Leila replied wearily. “It is of no moment.”
Looking
smug, Ewen started to speak, but Christina shot him a glare, silencing him.
“Dunstan’s aura is mostly gray and blue right now. He is worried and depressed,
but he’s trying to do the right thing.”
Ewen
raised an eyebrow in an expression that was remarkably similar to Dunstan’s,
and the pain of that reminder tore at Leila’s heart. Behind him, Griffith
slipped away.
“And I
suppose the simpleton with the gold button glows with rosy innocence?” Ewen
asked in a scathing tone.
Christina
shrugged. “He does, but that button could have come off anywhere. Or someone
could have dropped it where Dunstan might find it.”
“Have you
found Drogo yet?” Leila asked. “As magistrate here, he can see justice done.”
She kept an eye on Griffith’s progress across the yard. She could let nothing
happen to Dunstan’s son, no more than she could harm the child she carried. She
was torn in so many different directions, she didn’t know which way to turn.
“Drogo is
observing some conjunction of moon and stars or whatever,” Ewen answered.
“Ninian is sending for him. I’ll not let Dunstan rot in a stable until he’s
found.” With that angry dismissal, Ewen stalked off after Griffith.
“Arrogant
Ives pig,” Christina muttered.
“Bankrupt,
titleless, arrogant Ives pig,” Leila reminded her, as her mind conjured the
horror of Dunstan locked in a stable. “He is not for you.”
Christina
blinked in startlement at this observation, but Leila was staring across the
yard while her stomach roiled. They’d locked Dunstan in a stable! The proud man
who strode across acres of farmland in sunshine, treated plants as tenderly as
children, and carried children about like lambs had no business being
imprisoned in a windowless stable because of a lying worm like Wickham.
Or
because he thought to protect her, the damned insufferable man.
Her heart
ached with the desire to go to him, but she could not talk through a door with
his brother and son about. She had only one meager hope left.
With all
the guilt stinking the scene of the crime, surely one of the inn’s occupants
had to be Celia’s real killer. It was up to her to find out which one.
Sitting
in the straw and leaning against the rough wooden wall, Dunstan contemplated
closing his eyes and getting the sleep he’d missed, but if these were to be his
last few days of life, he would prefer to spend them awake.
He’d
rather not pass his time cataloging all the mistakes he’d made, but that seemed
to be the only direction his thoughts followed. He avoided thinking about the
mistake of Celia, because he still couldn’t believe in his guilt. He stared at
his big fists and couldn’t imagine them circling Celia’s pretty neck.
He
wrenched his thoughts from his late wife and back to other failures. He knew it
had been a mistake allowing others to usurp his duties to Griffith. If Wickham
won, Dunstan would never have a chance to know the boy, to teach him how to get
on in the world, to instill in him pride for who he was, so that he could march
forth into life with full confidence in himself. A boy needed a father for
that. Stupid of him to realize it only now.
He’d been
a fool to let Celia live in London without him, too. Had he been there, perhaps
he could have steered her away from soulless devils like the Wickham brothers
and their friends. If he got out of here alive, perhaps he could guide Leila’s
nephew away from those dangerous shoals, though he hadn’t done it for Celia.
He would
do anything for Leila, even put up with her spoiled nephew so she could have
her flowers. What he felt for Leila surpassed any meager infatuation he might
ever have felt for Celia.
He wanted
to grow old sitting beside the fire with her, watching their children romp and
play, hearing her intelligent opinions of his fine ideas, and listening to the
results of her latest experiments. Agony twisted his heart at the thought of
never knowing to what extent she could develop her fascinating gifts.
He’d
thought marriage a mere acquisition of possessions and had had no understanding
of its true meaning until now—when it might be too late.
Dunstan
buried his face in his hands at his mental list of rank negligence.
He’d
fathered a babe out of lust and not love, conceiving another child that he
might never watch grow.
Leila had
said she admired him, and he’d brushed it off. She had been telling him
something, and as usual, he’d shut his mind and hadn’t listened.
It was
much easier to be scornful and judgmental than to take the time to understand.
Perhaps she ought to stay out of his reach, as silk should be kept from mud.
Yet she’d
stood there in that doorway, listened to an honest man give certain proof of
his guilt, and still she miraculously believed in him.
His guilt
and doubt could destroy a woman he admired and loved beyond all others.
He loved
her.
Rocking
his head back to slam against the thick plank behind him, Dunstan stared at a
glimmer of light coming from between the boards of the door to his prison. If
he truly loved Leila, he ought to trust and believe in her. She’d said he was
innocent. If he believed in her as she did in him, then he couldn’t be guilty,
despite the evidence stacked against him.
A
murderer still ran loose. Somewhere in his mind, he’d known that, but it had taken this dark
moment to acknowledge it.
Apprehension
clenched Dunstan’s stomach as he saw past himself and his guilt to the truth.
He was locked behind barred doors, and Leila was out there while a cold-blooded
killer roamed free.
Rage
shoved panic aside even before he heard the hiss of a whisper behind his head.
“Dad, are
you there?”
Griffith. What was the damned boy doing here
with a killer loose? Dunstan slammed his fist into the wall until it shook.
“Where are your uncles? Tell them to get me out of here! There’s a murderer out
there.”
Silence.
Then Ewen’s voice intruded. “How did you know that? Your investigator just got
here.”
Oh damn,
oh double damn, he had to get out of here. Dunstan scanned the walls, panicking
at the knowledge in Ewen’s voice. “Where is Leila? Lock her up somewhere. Get
me out of here.” He ran his hands over the solid planks, searching for a
rotted one, a weakness, anything. Taking a deep breath, he tried to think.
“What did Handel find out?”
“He
followed Wickham last night,” Ewen answered.
Dunstan
quit pounding on the planks and listened. “Wickham? Where did the bastard go?”
“To a
pawnshop.” Ewen hesitated, as if checking to be certain no one heard. “The
proprietor wouldn’t let Handel in after Wickham left, so he had to wait until
this morning.”
“What did
he learn?” Dunstan continued running his hands over the planks, searching for a
rotten board.
“Wickham
retrieved some jewels last night. Handel just brought us a description.
Griffith thinks they sound like Celia’s.”
“Wickham?” Dunstan couldn’t conceive of it.
That effete mouse dropping? Why would he know where to find Celia’s jewels?
Lord John was the dangerous one, wasn’t he? The one who had destroyed Leila’s
lab?
“One of
you, keep an eye on Leila before she does something dangerous,” Dunstan
shouted. “Then get me out of this damned barn so I can wring Wickham’s neck and
pull the truth out of him.”
“I just
sent Griffith over to the inn.” Ewen kept his voice low. “Joseph’s already
there. But neither of them will persuade the fool woman to listen. You’re the
only one she’ll heed. Can’t you rip off the stall door?”
“Don’t
you think I would have if I could?” Dunstan bellowed in frustration. “The gems,
they’re evidence, aren’t they? Can’t you make the constable ask Wickham about
Celia’s jewelry?”
“Wickham
passed the jewels to someone else last night,” Ewen finally admitted. “We think
he’s hired someone to conceal them among your belongings.”
Hellfire
and damnation. Of
course he had. Wickham might as well have said it aloud when he suggested it to
the constable.
“Staines,”
Dunstan muttered. “He’ll send them with Staines and hide them in the tenant
house.”
Wickham
had known where to find Celia’s jewels. Mealymouthed, smarmy Henry Wickham knew
far more about Celia than he ought. George Wickham had had a passion for her,
and Henry was trying to frame Dunstan. Where was the connection?
At least
Leila’s intuition had been vindicated. Another suspect existed besides himself.
Fine lot that meant if he hanged and left Leila in the world with a murderer
and his son without a father.
With a
roar, Dunstan rammed his shoulder against the stable door.
Black skirt sweeping the carpet of the parlor she’d requisitioned, Leila
rubbed her forehead. She’d been awake far too long.
She would
never sleep again.
She
didn’t bother looking up as young Joseph entered. She hoped Ewen was keeping an
eye on Griffith. She might as well learn to accept the presence of Ives men in
her life. At some other time she might even enjoy their support.
“What are
they doing now?” she demanded.
“Wickham’s
gloating,” Joseph reported, having just returned from the tavern. “He and Lord
John and Sir Barton are playing cards, and Wickham’s losing. I don’t know where
he’s come into money from. He’s a lousy gambler.”
“So is
Staines,” Leila said. It didn’t take a witch to add two and two and see these
rogues gaining her nephew’s wealth over a gaming table, pressuring him to marry
Lady Mary in exchange for his debts. She simply didn’t understand what that had
to do with Dunstan or Celia. How did one go about finding a killer?
The vial
of perfume in her pocket grew warm between her fingers.
“Where is
the little lordling?” Joseph asked. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”
“If he
has any sense at all, he’ll be halfway back to Bath by now,” Christina
answered. “Leila left him with a flea in his ear.”
Not that
it mattered much. Ewen had told them about Wickham and the jewels. Had Staines
left for the country before or after Wickham had retrieved Celia’s gems?
“Wickham
has talked the constable into sending for a London magistrate,” Joseph informed
them gloomily. “They’re waiting for his arrival.”
Leila
fought back a wave of nausea. Fingering the vial, she decided it was now or
never. She had to believe she could use her gift to save Dunstan. She simply
didn’t know how to make it work.
Lifting
her skirts, she hurried across the room before anyone could stand in her way.
“I refuse to let those wicked devils gloat while a good man suffers.”
“Leila,
don’t be foolish!” Christina called after her.
“Either I
have power, or I don’t,” Leila shouted, sidestepping the young Ives who blocked
her way. “I’ll not wait any longer to find out.”
Wickham,
Lord John, and Sir Barton looked up in surprise as Leila swept into the room,
trailed by her sister in breeches and Joseph with a scowl on his face. “To what
do we owe this honor?” Wickham asked, lifting his mug and sipping in
appreciation.
“To me,”
Leila answered with fury. “Without me, you would all be nothing. For my
nephew’s sake, I recognized you. And now, I think I’ll have all London banish
you.”
Belatedly
remembering their manners, the three young men staggered to their feet in
bewilderment.
Wickham
shrugged. “You’re the one who decided Ives was more interesting. I’m the one
who will inherit a title, not him. You made a poor choice, if you ask me.”
“Leave
her be, Henry,” Sir Barton warned. “She’s a Malcolm and not to be trusted.”
“I am but
a woman, sir.” She swept closer, cautiously sniffing her surroundings. “And you
did not offer to help me grow roses.”
“Roses,”
Lord John scoffed. “Most women want jewels. Who could know you wanted foolish
flowers?”
She
needed to catch more subtle aromas. Or use the perfume in her pocket. With a
distracting sway of her skirts, she strode toward a window not far from their
table. “Perhaps next time you will think to ask.”
Behind
her, she could hear Christina admonishing Joseph to hold his tongue. He was no
doubt ready to tear her to shreds for even speaking with the men who had locked
his brother in a stable.
She let
the rage build within her and waited for the right moment.
“It’s too
late now to curry our favor,” Lord John replied with scorn. “Your nephew owes
me a debt greater than he can pay. Once he marries my sister, his house in
London as well as the one in Bath will be open to me anytime.”
“How very
charming.” Leila decided she would set fire to both house and gardens before
she allowed that to happen. Curling her fingers around the vial concealed in
her pocket, she loosened the lid. “Staines needs a man to look after him. He
does not heed my counsel.”
“He’ll
heed ours,” Wickham snarled, reaching for his ale.
“No, he
won’t. He’ll heed Dunstan’s or none at all. I have proof of Dunstan’s
innocence. He’ll be free shortly.” She still couldn’t ascertain guilt or
innocence through their scents, and they would return to their gaming if she
did not act now.
Before
any of the men could suspect her intention, Leila whipped the vial from her
pocket and raised her hand to fling it.
Lord John
leapt toward her and smacked her arm away, dashing the vial—and her
hopes—against the wall. The odor billowed on the air currents instead of
soaking her adversaries. In despair, she knew she’d never wring a confession
from them now.
Behind
her, Leila heard Joseph’s shout of anger at Lord John’s hasty action, but
before they could come to fisticuffs, Wickham intervened. Gripping Leila’s
wrist, he jerked her toward him. “Drenching us in your foul potions won’t stop
Dunstan from hanging,” he warned.
Caught by
surprise and off balance, Leila stumbled into his narrow chest. She was still
devastated by her inability to save Dunstan, and didn’t feel fear for
herself—until Wickham swung her around and wrapped his arm about her neck,
playfully raising her chin . . . and the scent of murder exploded
inside her head.
A vision
of Celia rose through the darkness, and Leila screamed.
Glancing
down at the startled, drunken faces below her, Celia laughed. Then, turning
back into the room, she fastened her mantle and nudged the big man on the floor
with her toe. “I trust you killed him.”
The
man retrieving his cocked hat from the wardrobe shrugged and brushed at the felt. “He
killed George. One way or another, he’s a dead man.”
Startled
by his cold tone, Celia stopped laughing. She smiled again as he caressed her
neck, lifting the heavy necklace fastened there. “Then we can be married,” she
purred in satisfaction. “Let it be soon, so the child has a name.”
“But
you were the one who sent George to his death,” he murmured, running his thumb
up and down her throat. “Bitch.”
“Dammit,
Ewen, where’s your inventiveness when I need it? Get me out of here!” Dunstan
shouted as he pounded his shoulder against a door that would not budge no
matter how much force he applied.
He heard
his brother scrambling around outside the stable. He didn’t ask what Ewen had
done with the constable or the men who should be guarding him. He didn’t care.
He needed to reach Leila before she did something rash.
Despair
raged through him as he nearly dislocated his shoulder slamming into the
oak-hard door yet again. “Acid, can you not use acid?” he yelled. “Boil some
water, put your infernal steam machine to use. Gunpowder! There’s bound to be
gunpowder.”
“I’ve
found it,” Griffith shouted from the outside wall.
“Griffith?
Ewen, why the devil isn’t he at the inn?”
“Because
he listens as well as you do,” Ewen said in disgust. “Stand back. The brat has
a solution.”
“What?
Lightning? Pulleys?” Dunstan let his thoughts roll over the multitude of insane
creations Ewen had perpetrated upon the world. Surely one of them had a use.
“An axe.”
The wall
behind him splintered beneath the force of a blade.
Dunstan
would have laughed at so mundane a solution had the situation not been so dire.
If no one had killed his guards, then they would be on him within minutes. He
wanted to swing the axe himself. He possessed more brute strength than Griffith
or his dandified brother.
“My son
is an Ives, through and through,” Dunstan said with pride as the hole opened.
“Give it to me. Where are the guards?”
Griffith
slid the axe handle through, as Ewen answered. “I just checked. Staines is
entertaining them with cigars. You should hear them shortly.”
“The
devil he is! What’s he doing here? Stand back.” Swinging the axe, Dunstan tore
through the splintered planks, widening the opening in a single blow.
“Staines
has decided his bread is best buttered on the side of the Malcolms, from what I
can tell. He just arrived in a tearing hurry, and I set him to distracting the
guards.”
After
slashing through the remaining planks, Dunstan shoved loosened boards aside and
stepped through the hole into freedom. He hugged his worried son, hoping to
dispel some of the fear on his face, and demanded, “Where’s Leila?”
Ewen
nodded in the direction of the inn.
Small
explosions coming from the front of the stable warned them that Staines’s
“cigars” had taken their toll. Dunstan shoved Griffith into Ewen’s arms and
sprinted across the muck of the stable yard toward the inn.
He heard
Leila’s scream before he reached the front door. Panic gave wings to his feet.
He burst
into a tavern reeking of the perfume she’d concocted for Lord John. At the
appalling sight inside, Dunstan slammed both his arms up to halt the man and
boy who arrived fast on his heels.
Wickham
held Leila’s neck in the crook of his arm in such a position that it would take
only one sharp move to crack it. Dunstan froze, assessing the situation.
Leila
didn’t seem to notice his arrival. Her captor glanced in bewilderment from her
limp form to Dunstan and began to back away, dragging Leila with him. Wickham’s
drinking companions stared in astonishment, their mugs frozen in midair.
Without a
word said, Dunstan understood—this was how Wickham had killed Celia. This was
how he would kill Leila if no one stopped him.
“Drop
her, you bastard,” Dunstan ordered, cold calm replacing insane terror now that
he had Leila in sight. He understood instantly that Leila’s safety demanded his
restraint. He didn’t like the blank expression on her face. She wasn’t seeing
this room. What, then, was she seeing in that strange mind of hers?
“She
fainted,” Wickham said in puzzlement. “What lies have you told her?”
Dunstan
was vaguely aware of his brothers and Leila’s sister gathering behind him, but
he remained focused on the man holding his life in his hands. “Let her go.” He
took a step forward.
Wickham
stepped back. “Don’t come closer! I won’t let you kill me as you did George.”
Appearing
confused, Leila awoke enough to wrap her hands around Wickham’s entrapping arm,
preventing any imminent danger of snapping her neck.
Dunstan
had to use every ounce of restraint he’d ever practiced to keep from dashing
across the room to rip the bastard’s head off. “Leila? Can you hear me?” he
asked softly, then winced as Wickham jerked her head back further.
Leila blinked,
gasped, then instinctively stood on the tips of her toes. Apparently returning
to consciousness, she gripped Wickham’s arm tighter so she could breathe and
speak easier. “Dunstan.” She smiled faintly before her gaze swept the anxious
faces filling the room and the seriousness of the situation showed on her face.
“Wickham,
she is ill. Let her sit down,” Dunstan said calmly, although his heart beat
hard enough to pound through his chest.
Sir
Barton eased toward the pair, but Wickham jerked Leila’s chin up higher. “Stay
away! All of you, get out. This is between me and Ives.”
Leila
caught his eye, willing him to do something, but he wasn’t a Malcolm and
couldn’t read her signal. He hesitated. What did she want of him? The room
reeked of spilled perfume, and he swore he could almost smell fear.
“Christina,
leave, please,” Leila whispered.
The girl
looked rebellious and didn’t move. Dunstan grabbed Christina’s collar and
Joseph’s coat and shoved them both toward Ewen in the doorway. “Out of here,
all of you.” He nodded at Griffith to indicate he should leave as well.
As the
younger ones reluctantly departed, Dunstan lifted an eyebrow in the direction
of Sir Barton and Lord John. Leila nodded slightly. Immediately, he caught
their arms and shoved them toward the exit. “Out, all of you.” He might lack
understanding, but he still possessed brute strength.
And
Leila’s trust.
The
gentlemen resisted, glancing anxiously at their drinking companion, but
Wickham’s furious gaze was focused solely on Dunstan. Silently, they followed
the others.
With the
room cleared of all but the three of them, Dunstan clenched his fists. “Now,
let her go, you bastard.”
“I’ll
break her neck if you take one more step,” Wickham warned. “You have a bad
habit of picking sharp-tongued vixens, don’t you?”
Before
Dunstan could adjust to this unexpected topic, Leila interrupted in a soothing
voice. “Celia lied to you, didn’t she Wickham? You didn’t really mean to harm
her.”
“She
claimed she was with child,” Wickham spat with disgust. “She told George she
would marry him if he could only dispose of her country farmer husband. She was
inordinately fond of titles, and George was in line for my uncle’s.”
Dunstan
didn’t wince at this portrayal of his treacherous, adulterous wife, or remark
upon Wickham’s willingness to admit it. He didn’t fully understand the spell
Leila was spinning, but steeled himself to wait for some opportunity to
intervene.
The
possibility of losing his stubborn witch in a heartbeat shrieked obscenities
through Dunstan’s mind. Violent emotions boiled and threatened to explode, but
he stood still, fists tight, waiting, trusting her.
“Then it
was Celia’s fault that George died,” Leila said sympathetically. “She sent him
to his death.” She darted Dunstan a glance, warning him not to move.
What did
she see that he could not?
“George
was a drunken idiot,” Wickham declared. “He would do anything Celia told him to
do. He spent his inheritance on the brainless chit.” He appeared startled that
he’d admitted such a thing and shot a warning glance at Dunstan.
“As
Dunstan did,” Leila continued consolingly, heedless of her captor’s grip.
“Those buttons she wore were quite costly. How did Dunstan come to have one in
his hand?”
A
malevolent gleam lit Wickham’s eye. “I put it there when I shoved him into the
hall. Brilliant of me, wasn’t it? Kill Celia and let her husband take the
blame.” Wickham laughed as if this was the funniest joke he’d heard, then
looked startled again.
Dunstan
swallowed a lump of fear. What would Wickham do if he realized Leila was
somehow manipulating his revelations? She must have had another vision to know
the right questions to ask.
He
watched with his heart in his mouth as Leila reached behind her to pat
Wickham’s face, sending Dunstan a look that had him rolling his weight to the
balls of his feet in preparation.
“Celia
had no care for any man. It was your child she carried, wasn’t it?” she
asked of her captor.
“How did
you know that?” Wickham demanded in astonishment. “After she sent George to his
death, I had no choice but to kill her. She wanted me to marry her.”
Dunstan
could barely grasp the full extent of what Leila was doing, but he knew she
used whatever provocative force existed inside her to pry this confession from
Wickham. He had to admire the way she combined the knowledge gained from her
vision with her instinct to reveal what others would conceal.
He—of all
people—should have glimpsed the terrifying extent of her abilities.
Leila
didn’t need roses. She didn’t need perfume to access her gift. She possessed a
power far greater than the feeble ones of her aunt and mother.
And she
would die because of him if he didn’t do something soon.
Catching
sight of Ewen positioning himself outside the open window behind Leila, Dunstan
steeled himself to act before Wickham grew tired of answering questions.
Taking a
deep breath and saying a prayer, Dunstan stepped forward. Wickham stepped
backward—toward the window.
Leila
fixed her gaze on Dunstan, forcing him to wait. “Of course you had no choice,”
she told her captor. “And George had already spent his inheritance on her, so
there was nothing left except Celia’s jewels. I begin to understand your
predicament.”
Wickham
relaxed an infinitesimal amount. “I had to get George’s money back,” he agreed.
“Her jewels were worth a fortune, and she refused to give them up.”
Dunstan
took another step forward. Wickham glared at him, but retreated to within reach
of the window.
“She owed
you?” Leila asked, holding tight to Wickham’s arm and standing on her toes.
She
prayed Dunstan would heed her look. Her heart pounded fiercely in anticipation.
Did he understand? She could tell by the way his fists clenched that he wanted
nothing more than to strangle Wickham, but he was restraining all that violent
emotion—simply because she asked it of him.
He had
the strength to heave Wickham through the window, had every incentive to do so,
but Dunstan’s intelligent gaze watched her with determination, waiting for her
signal, trusting in her ability.
Trusting
her ability—completely and without question. That was the only gift she needed.
Exhilaration
blossomed inside her the instant Wickham’s grip relaxed enough for her to make
her move. She caught Dunstan’s gaze, nodded briefly, and he exploded into
action.
Before
Wickham could react, Dunstan crossed the distance in a single step. Leila
gasped in relief as he caught her waist and lifted her from the floor with his
left arm. With his right hand, he snatched the arm entrapping her from around
her neck with such force that she could hear the bones of Wickham’s wrist snap.
As
Wickham howled in pain, Dunstan lowered Leila’s feet to the floor and twisted
her captor’s arm behind his back in a move that was so crippling Wickham
doubled up in agony.
Finally
registering the shouts coming from outside the window, Leila moved back against
the wall. With the ease of a man pitching dung from a stable, Dunstan hurled
Wickham toward the open window, into the waiting hands of his brother.
Free at
last, Leila flung her arms around Dunstan, letting him cradle her against his chest.
With her
face buried in a broad shoulder, Leila felt Dunstan’s grunt of satisfaction as
Ewen climbed over the windowsill and throttled Wickham’s windpipe in the same
painful manner as he’d held hers—effectively preventing his escape and cutting
off his howls of rage.
She was
safe. Her heart beat with Dunstan’s, her hair brushed his unshaven jaw, and his
breath blew against her neck.
“Do you
know what you just did?” Dunstan shouted in her ear.
“Made you
angry?” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and twisting his hair
between her fingers. “You don’t smell angry.”
“Damn it,
Leila, you could have gotten yourself killed,” he roared in frustration. “Do I
have to hang about all the time to keep you and your nose out of trouble?”
She
peered at him from beneath fluttering lashes. “Would you?”
A
familiar dry voice silenced all the shouting except Wickham’s choked curses.
“Am I to see all of you locked in gaol or just the one being strangled?”
Dunstan’s
brothers and son, and even Leila’s nephew, held their tongues and turned
expectantly to Dunstan.
Slipping
past the men gathering in the doorway, even Christina looked to Dunstan to
reply to the toweringly furious Earl of Ives. Drogo had commanded his herd of
unruly brothers for so long that he’d taken on the authority of both judge and
jury.
Leila
smiled as Dunstan studied her face for reassurance, and she swelled with pride
at his confident manner when he faced his imperious brother.
“I have
matters under control,” Dunstan replied. “You can go back and study the stars a
while longer.”
“I don’t
suppose anyone cares to explain what has happened here?” Drogo asked, his
glance roaming from Ewen holding Wickham in front of the tavern window to Lord
John and Sir Barton hurrying out the front door of the inn.
“Ask the
witch in breeches,” Ewen answered. “Then send her home where she belongs.”
“Leave
Christina out of this,” Joseph shouted in her defense. “I have to stop those
scoundrels heading for the stable. They might have evidence they can give.” He
shoved past Drogo to race after Wickham’s friends.
Whoops of
delight erupted from Griffith and the young viscount, both of whom dashed out
in Joseph’s wake.
Leila
settled back into Dunstan’s arms and all but purred. “I’m beginning to
recognize the sounds of an Ives harmony. Do you think they can carry on without
us?”
Being a
man of few words, Dunstan elbowed his way past his bemused brother. While
members of their families cornered Barton and Lord John in the stable, Dunstan
flung open the door of the carriage that was still standing in the yard.
“I have
nowhere to take you,” he muttered in frustration as he deposited her inside.
Leila
noticed in satisfaction that he didn’t allow that little problem to stop him
from jumping in and ordering the driver away.
“You could have been killed!” Dunstan
ranted as the carriage jerked forward. “What the devil did you think you were
doing back there?”
“Trusting
my instincts,” Leila murmured, snuggling close until he wrapped his arm around
her, “just as you told me to do.”
“I’m
telling you to forget instincts and stay in London and never smell another
scent again,” he roared senselessly. “I’d sooner rip my own heart out than see
you take such risks.”
Leila
patted his rumpled cravat and pulled it loose. “Did anyone ever tell you how
handsome you are when you’re angry?” She chuckled at his outraged expression.
Dunstan
caught her hand to prevent her marauding fingers from wandering farther. “If I
don’t have you soon, I’ll go mad, but the only bed I own is two days away,” he
complained as the driver blew his horn and the carriage swung into the open
road. He lifted Leila into his lap so the jolts of the swaying carriage
wouldn’t jar her.
She
snuggled deeper into his reassuring embrace, felt the press of his rising
ardor, and smiled in contentment. Dunstan might gripe, but he held her as if
she were a precious jewel—or turnip, she thought with a smile. She would listen
to his complaints for a lifetime in exchange for the security of his brawny
arms. She would create a new perfume for him. He smelled of confidence and
uncertainty at the same time.
“What
about the bog you own? Isn’t that near here?” She pressed her cheek into his
rumpled coat, more interested in this discussion than what had happened back at
the inn. “Does it have a roof and four walls?”
“A
crumbling hunting box,” he grumbled. “That is no place to take you. You need
silk sheets and a maid to wait upon you. I need to take you home, where you
belong.”
“I need you,”
she stated firmly, kissing the strong column of his throat above his unfastened
cravat. Men carried impossible ideals in their heads, she’d discovered. It was
time she disabused him of a few of his. “I do not wish to hear your litany of
denials until after you’ve held me long enough to blot out these last hours.”
“Hold you
is all I can do in that bog.” His big hands slipped her hairpins loose,
freeing her curls to fall about her shoulders. “I have things I need to say
that require a romantic bower, but both our families would hunt us down should
I take you back to the grotto now.”
Leila’s
hopes took wing, although she had no reason to believe the obstinate man was
ready to see things her way. He’d told her to rely on her instincts, and
henceforth she would. “I want to see your bog,” she demanded. “I want to hold
you like this, with no one making demands of us for a while.”
Raising
an eyebrow at her insistence, Dunstan leaned over and hit the driver’s door,
gave him instructions, then settled her more comfortably in his lap.
He sat
back and tilted her chin so their eyes met. “Now tell me what you saw back
there.”
She
smiled in quiet pride. “I saw Celia.”
She gave
him a moment to bluster and complain. Instead, he blanched slightly beneath his
weather-beaten complexion, but nodded in acceptance and waited for her to
continue.
Carefully,
she explained what she’d seen and how she’d interpreted it.
“Henry
looks enough like his brother George that no one thought to notice him when he
left later,” she added at the end of her story. “At the time, the innkeeper
didn’t know George was dead, so I imagine he wouldn’t have thought twice if he
saw Henry leave.”
Leila
smoothed Dunstan’s stubbled cheek with her hand as he closed his eyes against
the pain of Celia’s abrupt end. “You sacrificed everything for her—your son,
your earnings, your future. You could not have done more.”
He nodded
wordlessly, and they rode in silence while he buried his grief for the wife
he’d never truly known.
As the
carriage carried them in the direction he’d chosen, Dunstan tightened his arms
around her. “You’re too dangerous to be allowed in public.”
“I won’t
be your possession to hide away,” she reminded him. Keep him off balance, she
decided, and she might survive the sweet torture of his experienced fingers
sliding across her bare skin as he sought the fastening of her gown. “I
understand how you felt about Celia, but you know full well I’m not Celia.
You’ll have to trust me, because I’ll not deny who I am for anyone ever again.”
Dunstan
nibbled her ear, and releasing the hooks at her back, slid his hand around to
caress her breasts above her corset. “Not wanting to share you doesn’t mean I
expect you to fit some imaginary mold as society does. I want you to be all
that you can be. I would have particularly admired your performance earlier, if
it had not nearly given me failure of the heart.”
“You
understood as no other man would have,” she murmured in satisfaction. “You did
not act the part of raging bull, but waited and trusted my instincts. That’s
why I love you.”
At her
declaration of love, Dunstan stilled, studying her through discerning dark eyes
while his fingers rubbed across the aching tip of her breast.
He said
nothing, and Leila would have beat him with her fist if she had not understood
his dilemma. In some ways, they were in perfect agreement. In others, they were
miles apart.
She
stroked his scratchy jaw and smiled. “You told me to follow my instincts. Well,
instinct says I should no longer hide what I feel.”
Dunstan
tugged at her corset strings so he might explore her unfettered breasts. He’d
much rather act on his instincts than talk about hers, but they’d done
that before and ended up with nothing settled. “You probably know how I feel
better than I do,” he admitted. “That doesn’t change our positions.”
She
grabbed fistfuls of his hair and drew his head up so he must meet her eyes. He
kissed her lips before she could unleash her tongue.
Gratified
by the small moans he elicited, he caressed her breasts and debated the wisdom
of taking her in the rattling carriage. Remembering the child she carried, he
resisted. But if he meant to continue resisting, he’d have to quit kissing.
With a sigh of regret, he released her mouth, stole one more look at the fair
swells he wished to claim, and pulled her bodice closed. “You want the words?”
he demanded. “You want proof of what kind of besotted idiot I am?”
“Yes,
please,” she answered, with a coy flutter of lashes. “How will I know if my
instincts are correct unless someone verifies them?”
Gads, she
tugged at his heartstrings. Dunstan caressed her cheek and steeled himself. “I
love you,” he declared stoutly.
The words
weren’t as difficult to say as he’d imagined, and he repeated them with a sense
of wonder. “I love you. I don’t wish to share you with any other man.” He
blinked in amazement that he did not incinerate into a heap of ashes at the
admission.
“I want
to be able to talk with you anytime I wish.” The words kept tumbling out,
unrestrained. “I want the freedom of your bed every night of the week, and in
between, if I can. I want to be with you when you discover more about your
abilities, and I want to be with you when your experiments go wrong. Is that
enough, or shall I rip my heart out and hand it to you?”
Perhaps
he sounded a little too gruff. He’d scared Celia often enough with his crude
outbursts. Leila, though, as she’d reminded him, was not Celia. She smiled in
such genuine delight at his rough declaration that his heart ached even more at
what could never be. His name might be cleared, but he couldn’t take away her
land and gardens and all her glorious hopes for the future by marrying her.
“Your
heart is already in the right place,” she replied, snuggling against his chest
and burning a kiss where she’d opened his shirt. “It’s your head that needs
examining. I want all that you want, and more. You are far more important to me
than land or roses or perfume. You are not a man who is happy with an empty
bed, and I am not a woman who would enjoy seeing you share it with another. And
our families have made it obvious they will not be happy if we have this child
without the conventions being met.”
Dunstan
sank his hand into her hair and held her against his chest where he could not
fall into her bewitching eyes and believe what he wanted to hear. “They want
marriage,” he said hoarsely. “But you will lose everything if we marry.”
“I will
lose everything if we do not.”
To her,
“everything” must mean him, though he could scarce credit it.
The
carriage lurched, tilted, and righted itself, in accompaniment with his nervous
insides. Its progress was growing noticeably slower. Dunstan glanced out the
far window, and prayed as he’d never prayed before that Leila could see beyond
the immediate. “In a moment, you will see what madness you speak.”
He held
her tightly, knowing he would have to release her once her madness ran its
course and her formidable intelligence returned. He ought to run to Scotland
with her right now, while opportunity beckoned, but he could not lock her into
a marriage she would regret. They’d both done that before.
Gently,
he began refastening the hooks he’d undone. The carriage came to an abrupt
halt. Leila looked at him questioningly but began righting her hair.
“We did
not go far,” she said.
Dunstan
jerked his cravat in place to cover his opened shirt. “My maternal grandfather
was squire here. I grew up in the countryside around Baden and Ives. Most of my
grandfather’s land passed to my mother’s brother, but he knew my heart was with
the soil, and he left me what he could.” He set her on the seat as the driver
climbed down to unlatch the carriage door. “I’d hoped one day to have
sufficient money to drain this acreage and make it arable, but it’s impossible
to do that and support a family as well.”
Dunstan
stepped out of the carriage and looked around while Leila finished tying her
ribbons. He breathed deeply of the moist air, smelled the dirt of home, and
drew it into his starving soul before forcing himself to look at the hovel that
would no doubt send Leila screaming back to London.
It hadn’t
improved with age. Made of stone, covered in ivy, thatched roof rotting and
falling in, it looked as abandoned as it was. Sheep had harvested the worst of
the weeds, and wildflowers bloomed heedlessly in protected corners, but it was
still a hovel. He might long to restore this land, but even he wouldn’t live
here.
He turned
and reluctantly held out his arms to swing Leila down. He might as well dash
all their happy dreams now.
“Be
careful of your shoes,” he murmured, holding her in his arms for one brief
moment before lowering her to the grass. He hadn’t realized how much he’d
longed for the right to hold her like this, to bring her to his home, to
believe she would stand by his side through thick and thin.
No matter
what the future held, Leila would reside inside him forever. She might as well
know that.
Dunstan
turned her to face the ramshackle dwelling, and wrapped his arms around her
waist from behind. He might have to show her, but he didn’t have to watch her
expression of horror as he did.
She
stayed silent for so long that despair took root in his heart. “Once my name is
officially clear, I am free to earn a living anywhere,” he reminded her. “If
you would not mind living with Ninian, I could return to Ives. We have
choices,” he tried to tell her, although he couldn’t believe what he was
saying.
“Those
are roses blooming in that weed patch,” she said with what sounded like
fascination. “Can we look?”
Shaking
his head at the vagaries of the female mind, Dunstan held out his arm and
helped her climb over the weeds and briars and brambles. “Half of England is
covered in roses,” he reminded her. “If I drained the bog, you might have
enough acreage to develop the garden you planned, but we would have to eat rose
petals or starve. I have two children to consider first.” That thought caused
him both pride and pain. He wanted Griffith and his unborn daughter to grow up
in a happy home with roses in their garden and a loving mother who would
balance out his faults.
Leila
crouched down to examine a burst of pink blooms buried in long grass.
“They
smell of love,” she exclaimed. “I’ve not seen this variety anywhere.”
To
Dunstan’s utter shock, she leapt up and flung her arms around him. “I want a
garden!” she cried. “I thought I could give it up, but I can’t. I want a
garden. I want this garden.” She lifted magnificent blue eyes up to his
and pleaded. “I can smell it here. It’s perfect. I know it will take work, but
it’s here. I know it is. I can see it!”
Totally
flummoxed and bewildered, Dunstan held her at the waist, and trapped by her
bewitching eyes, he attempted to find logic in the insanity of her declaration.
“What is perfect? The rotting thatch? The verdant weeds?”
“The
land.” She sighed in delight, snuggling into him. “It’s not rocky like mine. It
has lots of the moisture flowers need. It will grow wonderful roses, ones that
smell of love. Can you imagine what I can do with a perfume that smells like
love?”
“Other
people don’t smell love,” he reminded her, although he could scarcely think
clearly with her breasts pressed into him and her arms around his neck. “And
you can’t live here. It’s not fit for a sty.”
She waved
a careless hand, released him, and darted off to examine another flower.
“Lavender,” she called in satisfaction. “It’s an old garden. There could be
treasures all over, old ones that are hard to find. I can grow the flowers that
I need here. Here, I’ll learn how to control my visions.”
He
followed cautiously in her path while seeking a way to make her idea work. He
hated to remind her of the expense involved in draining this land when she
seemed so delighted with it. She’d lifted his spirits, for no logical reason
whatsoever, considering he was in imminent danger of losing his turnips, if
they married and Staines claimed her estate.
“I
suppose I could work for Drogo and live in his steward’s house again,” he mused
aloud. “None of my brothers seems eager to take up the position.”
Crushing
lavender to her bosom, Leila bussed his cheek. “That would be wonderful, thank
you. You can help me develop new plants, and Ninian, who can grow things with
her eyes shut, can help with the garden. And I’m sure Drogo will be relieved to
have your wisdom again.”
She
watched him expectantly. Still confused and stunned that she might even
consider living in a house other than her own, Dunstan said the only words that
entered his paralyzed mind. “Will you marry me, then?”
He wanted
to grab the words back as soon as he said them, but as always, she caught him
by surprise.
“I
thought you’d never ask.” Holding the lavender, Leila flung her arms around his
neck and kissed him with fervor.
Dunstan
shook his head in awe of how easily she plucked his feelings from him. He
didn’t care if none of this made sense, if the earth trembled and the walls
shook. He’d placed his future in her hands, and joy raced through him. Now was
a time for acting and not thinking.
Lifting
Leila by the waist, Dunstan carried her around the side of the house, out of
sight of the carriage and driver. Setting her down in a patch of daisies, he
reached for the nearest evergreen branch and snapped it off. While she
rhapsodized over the colors and fragrances of the weeds, Dunstan snapped off
every branch in sight, then spread her cloak over the lot of them.
Catching
her by the waist again, he gently lowered her to the springy bed he’d made and
fell down beside her. Warm air caressed his cheek as softly as Leila’s fingers
did when he bent over her.
“My wife
should have silks and diamonds,” he murmured, plundering her mouth before she
could laugh.
Leila’s
tongue wrapped her sweetness around his, drawing him nearer to heaven. When
neither of them could breathe, he spread his kisses across her cheek.
“Your
wife would prefer roses and lavender.” She breathed a sigh of delight as he
found a particularly sensitive place. “And this is the loveliest bed she has
ever known.”
Something
primitive and joyous stirred in him when she called herself his wife. In
gratitude at her acceptance, Dunstan unfastened her bodice again, and spread
open the front of her unhooked corset. Seeking the tender morsels buried
beneath the frippery, he suckled deep and long until she could no longer speak
but merely cried out in need.
“I will
give you roses in winter,” he vowed. “You will never lack for precious scents
if you will have me.”
“Give me your
scent,” she demanded, dragging his shirttail from his breeches and rubbing her
hands over his chest beneath it.
That was
one request he could grant without difficulty. Sprawling his great bulk between
her legs, Dunstan propped his weight on his elbows, and bent to press his kiss
upon her eager lips. He wanted her promises in simple terms that even he could
understand. “This seals our vows before God, Leila,” he warned. “Be certain
this is what you wish, because no matter what the future brings, you will not
be rid of me once you’re mine.”
She yanked
the loose ribbon from his queue and spread his hair over his bare shoulders.
Dunstan felt himself falling into the depths of her eyes, but he hung on,
willing himself not to move until he saw her answer in the loving smile on her
lips.
“I vow to
love, honor, and take thee in equality for so long as both of us shall live,”
she whispered solemnly.
In
equality. Dunstan
remembered Drogo’s panic at that Malcolm vow, but he’d had time to understand
it better than his noble brother. He’d never known such joy. He might be a man
who couldn’t live without a woman, but only this woman would do. “I vow
to take thee as my wife, to love, honor, and respect thee in equality, for so
long as both of us shall live, and beyond,” he promised without hesitation.
Her eyes
widened in delight at that, but he had exhausted his supply of patience.
Feeling like a pirate claiming a precious treasure, he joined his flesh with
hers, celebrating the promises of their hearts with the pleasures of physical
possession.
He’d
conquered the lady’s heart only after he had submitted his own heart to the
power of her love, the only witchcraft needed for building a future.
“I’d rather chew off my own arm than
wear—” Dunstan snapped his mouth shut as his bride-to-be lifted amused eyes to
his. Standing across the room, Leila wore a shimmery powdery-blue confection
that matched the sparkles in her eyes, and every time he looked at her, he
couldn’t remember what he was complaining about.
Wearing a
simple silver-blue gown adorned with blue ribbons, Ninian fastened a bunch of
leaves and flowers to his lapel and patted it with satisfaction. “This is bay
for love and honor and success, and a spray of jasmine for prosperity.”
“A spray
of bank drafts would work better,” Dunstan grumbled, but he tugged to be
certain the flowers were secure. He needed all the prosperity he could
accumulate to support a wife as well as a son and daughter.
“I told
you to keep Celia’s jewels,” Drogo said absently from where he leaned against
the mantel, head bent over a book. “It was considerate of Wickham to save us
the trouble of retrieving them from that pawnshop. The green one adequately
repaid Handel, with some left over, and I never considered the money I gave you
as a loan needing repayment.”
“It was
far and above our agreed-upon percentage for my work.” Holding his chin high so
Ninian could straighten his cravat, Dunstan stared over her head to the foyer
of the Ives London town house. Beyond the foyer waited the formal salon, where
Leila’s female relations flitted about, decorating for the upcoming nuptials.
He refused to be nervous about the eccentric rituals that lay ahead, but his
gaze kept drifting to Leila for reassurance. The love he found in her eyes
soothed his ruffled hackles every time.
“You
don’t like being paid to play in the dirt,” his soon-to-be wife scoffed. “I see
I shall have to negotiate your wages for you.”
Dunstan
grinned and dodged Ninian’s interfering hands to cross the room. “Do you intend
to douse Drogo in perfume and discover my true worth in his eyes?” He grabbed
the lacy veil and circle of twigs with which her sister had just covered
Leila’s curls and tossed them in the direction of the fireplace.
While
Christina rescued them from the flames, Leila boldly met his gaze. “Your lofty
brother has no clue what you’re worth.”
“And you
do?”
Before
Leila could reply, her mother and aunt hurried across the foyer with a rustle
of skirts and squawks of outrage to join them in the family parlor. “That
impossible man is here,” the duchess cried, at the same time that Hermione
wailed, “Someone hung”—she spluttered and turned pink—“those things on
the rowan tree!”
So that
was where his extra supply of protectives had disappeared to, Dunstan realized.
His brothers no doubt thought he wouldn’t need them anymore. Why they had
chosen to tie them to a rowan tree wasn’t a question Dunstan cared to pursue.
He chose to answer the duchess’s complaint instead. “I invited the impossible
man,” he warned, stopping the duchess in her tracks. “Griffith requested it.”
“Adonis?”
Leila whispered beside him, having been told of the invitation.
Dunstan
nodded while continuing to stare down the huffy duchess.
“Well!”
Stella turned her attention to Leila’s bare head. “Where’s your circlet of
rowan?” she demanded, sweeping across the room to snatch it from Christina.
“And his?” She shot Dunstan a demanding look.
“Wear
it,” Leila ordered in an undertone as Dunstan started to protest. “For me,” she
finished with a smile that smote his heart.
Dunstan
bit back his grumble and let Christina stand on a chair to lower a circle of
dried twigs and purple and white flowers onto his head. “I feel like one of
your damned rosebushes,” he complained when Christina jumped down and eased out
of his way. “Next you’ll be sticking my feet in mud and telling me to grow.”
Leila’s
muffled chuckle was music to his ears, so he didn’t protest too loudly when
Hermione fluttered about him with the silly cape they’d forced Drogo to wear at
his wedding.
“It’s
Leila who will grow, dear,” his mother-in-law-to-be corrected. She turned to
Leila to adjust the cape Christina had placed over her shoulders. “You will
need to leave for our home in Northumberland by fall so you do not risk having
the child while traveling in winter.”
Dunstan’s
life had been rearranged so completely these past weeks, he’d become accustomed
to it, but he didn’t have to let the interfering witches think they had the
upper hand. He wouldn’t question their belief that Malcolm babies must be
delivered in Wystan, their ancestral home, but he could argue all else, with
vigor. “We’ll leave when I have my land drained, and not an instant before,” he
warned. “I promised Leila a garden, and she’ll have one.”
“Leila’s
dowry will pay for that drainage,” Drogo reminded him, setting his book on the
mantel. “You might give some consideration to her mother’s concerns.”
“It’s
Dunstan’s land,” Leila defended him. “Between us, it is a joint endeavor. We
will use the sale of his crop and turnip seeds to pay for my flowers, so I will
be in his debt, not the other way around. I will trust his judgment on when we
should leave for Wystan.”
“You are
the one who twisted Staines’s arm and forced him to give me the tenant farm, as
promised,” Dunstan reminded her, “or I wouldn’t have turnips to sell. Let us
not refine too much upon who owes what to whom.”
Leila
shot him a brilliant smile. “Staines was so grateful that he wouldn’t have to
marry Lady Mary that he would have given us the entire estate as a wedding gift
if he could have. Do you think you might train one of your brothers to manage
his lands as well as you did? Bath is so far, I don’t think you can manage it
and Ives, too.”
Dunstan
would have laughed at the impossibility of any of his brothers dealing with the
spoiled viscount, but he was still off balance from the reminder that Leila
would bear his child in less than seven months’ time. “My brothers might
explore our cave, could they find it, or dig for bones or explode holes in the
hillside, so I think I’d best find another steward for your nephew. I owe him
that much for deeding the grotto to you, even if his grandfather will not let
him keep your gardens.”
“We’ll
take what flowers we can to Wystan,” Leila replied serenely, tucking her hand
into his. “Over the winter, we can use the conservatory there, and you can show
me how to develop new varieties so we will be prepared when we return to Ives.”
Dunstan
liked the sound of that, but a noise in the doorway distracted him. He smiled
at the sight of his son standing there, the impossible Adonis at his side. The
sudden look of uncertainty in Griffith’s eyes reminded him that in the flurry
of wedding preparations, he hadn’t offered the boy the necessary reassurances.
He still needed to hone his fathering skills.
“Lady
Leila has a rather valuable stable that will need tending when she brings it to
Ives,” Dunstan told the boy, ignoring the chaos of activity around them. “I
thought you might help me with that this summer, and come with us to Wystan
this fall, unless you prefer to attend Eton.”
Griffith’s
eyes widened, but still hesitant of his place in these grand surroundings, he
hung back. “You would take me with you?”
Leila
tore her hand from Dunstan’s grip and strode across the room to reassure him.
“I’ve talked with your mother. She agrees that it is time for you to be with your
father now. He’ll need your company when we go north. I’ve been told Ives men
don’t fare well with only women around.”
Griffith
glanced dubiously over his shoulder to the parlor, where loud male laughter
mixed with feminine giggles. “He has a lot of brothers . . .”
“Who have
no appreciation for the land from which they sprang,” Adonis replied from the
door. “They’ll not venture out in the dead of winter, far from the distractions
of city life, in the interest of keeping family company.”
Dunstan
would have disagreed, but Leila’s fascinated gaze on this man whom no one could
name or place irked his more proprietary tendencies. Crossing the room to join
her, he rubbed his hand over Griffith’s head. “Next year, Eton for you, boy,
but this year is mine,” he whispered, before wrapping an arm around his bride’s
slim waist. “A pox on you, Nameless,” he said to Adonis. “What do you know of
family life?”
Adonis’s
shaggy head swung slowly from Leila’s admiring gaze to confront Dunstan’s
dangerous one. “I had a mother,” he retorted. “I did not spring from under a
cabbage leaf.”
Dunstan
dropped a kiss on Leila’s curls, released her, rolled his shoulders beneath the
tight fit of the coat to loosen them, and raised his fists. “If you had a
mother, then you have a name. What is it?” He might not have any grasp of the
feminine niceties strewn about him, but he knew how to stake his territory. It
began by identifying the stranger’s proper place in his universe.
Wide
shoulders encased in a shabby blue coat, long legs in shiny new boots crossed
in a relaxed stance as he leaned against the door, Adonis regarded his host’s
fighting stance. “You’re planning to fight me for my name on your wedding day?”
“I figure
I’m the largest one here and the most apt to win,” Dunstan agreed, ignoring
Drogo’s polite cough.
Adonis
turned back to Leila with a questioning lift of his dark brow. “You’re prepared
to nurse him back to health after I pound him through the floor?”
Leila
flashed her most flirtatious grin, the one guaranteed to drive Dunstan’s ire
through the roof. “That’s Ninian’s talent. I’ll just watch, thank you.”
Dunstan
laughed out loud in great, tumbling peals of joy. She’d just given him
permission to do as he pleased, and encouraged him to do so with that smile.
Gad, he loved the vixen.
First,
though, he would have to settle this family matter, for there was no doubt in
his mind that the ugly-beaked giant ornamenting the doorway had to be an Ives.
No one else in all the kingdom could sport the dark looks and prominent
proboscis better than his family.
“Leila
understands character,” Dunstan said off-handedly, not expecting his guest to
grasp the significance of that. He would have to ask her later what she’d seen
in Adonis that had led her to believe they wouldn’t kill each other.
Adonis
considered that a moment before saying, “Aodhagán.”
“Aid-ah-what?”
Materializing beside Dunstan, Drogo attempted to repeat the word.
Dunstan
simply stared in puzzlement, wondering if the man spoke in tongues.
“Aodhagán,”
Adonis repeated. “That’s my name.”
“Gaelic,”
Hermione murmured, straightening the golden cape around Dunstan’s shoulders.
“Aid-ah-GAN, little fire. A very, very old name. I’m surprised your mother used
it. We tend to use saints’ names these days, not the old names.”
Dunstan
thought Adonis might strangle while processing this information from Leila’s
bird-witted mother. “Malcolms tend to use saints’ names,” Dunstan
clarified.
“Well,
our branch does,” Hermione corrected, “but we are very forward-looking. That’s
not to say he’s a Malcolm, dear,” she added in a flutter of alarm at Dunstan’s
jerk of surprise at the suggestion that there were more branches on the
Malcolm tree. “It is a very old name, after all. Anyone might use it.”
Leila
patted her mother’s arm and steered her away from Dunstan, but her fascinated
gaze remained on the man in the doorway. “I take it no one can pronounce your
name, which is why you call yourself Adonis,” she concluded.
“Among
other reasons,” the stranger answered with wary amusement.
“And
would you care to enlighten us on the family name?” Dunstan persisted. He
hadn’t wanted to like the man, but he understood his humor. The god Adonis was
said to be very handsome, and this giant looked like an Ives. Ives males had
many reputations, but handsomeness wasn’t the one that stood out.
Dunstan
didn’t flinch beneath the dark, considering look the larger man gave him. He
had no particular desire to create a brawl on his wedding day, but he wouldn’t
avoid one either if the man insisted he wasn’t part of the family. With all these
women fluttering about, brawling seemed a reasonable alternative.
“Dougal,”
Adonis finally replied, in a curt, clipped tone.
“Dougal.”
Stella repeated the name thoughtfully while straightening Leila’s veil.
“Hermione, didn’t we have a great-aunt who married a Dougal?”
“If you
say so, dear. I believe the vicar just arrived. Shouldn’t we be taking our
seats? I don’t know how much longer Felicity can keep the young ones behaving.”
All
around him, women flitted and fluttered and clucked. Dunstan merely took
shelter by drawing Leila to him. She was his already, vowed beneath the
heavens. The ceremony ahead was merely a formality. He had responsibilities
now, and he meant to assume them. Drogo had his business in Parliament and
couldn’t be expected to handle every situation that their rowdy family
engendered.
And the
big man standing before him was part of the family, regardless of the name he
gave them.
“Aidan.”
Dunstan decided on the shorter name with satisfaction. “I’ll be damned if I
call you Adonis any longer. Griffith is to stand up with me, but I’d appreciate
it if you would take the row with my brothers—if it’s not an imposition,” he
amended, feeling Leila’s tug on his sleeve.
Looking
trapped, Aidan glanced from Dunstan’s determined expression to Drogo’s
interested one, to the women, who did not appear to consider this request at
all remarkable. His jaw muscle ticked, then set as he shrugged. “If you wish.
But do not think you can hold me afterward.”
“Of
course not,” Leila answered. “Though you’ll want to stay for some of Maman’s
punch, I imagine. And Ninian has ordered the most delicious little tarts. I
believe Griffith has learned some trick with a puzzle that he wished to show
you, but I’m sure you can do that anytime.”
Hugging
his magical wife, Dunstan kissed her ear. “Don’t tease, Leila. You may tame
only one Ives at a time, and that one is me.” He gave his newfound friend a
sympathetic glance. “Drogo has asked us to stay at Ives for the summer while I
oversee the estate and drain my bog. You are welcome to join us when you can.
The place is a monstrosity large enough to house two tribes.”
“I think
I prefer your bog,” Aidan said dryly. “I’ll fix the thatch in return.”
“Would
you?” Leila asked eagerly. “We’re planning on that becoming my distillery, but
it will be some time before I have flowers to distill.”
Satisfied
that he’d finally found a way to repay their odd relation for returning
Griffith to him, Dunstan returned his attention to the matter at hand—surviving
this public ceremony so he had the right to sweep Leila off to the house Drogo
had given him at Ives, and the bed he now called his own.
“I think
it is high time we suffer through the charade so we can go on to more important
matters,” he whispered in Leila’s ear, planting a possessive palm over the
place where his daughter grew. He was rather looking forward to the challenge
of raising the only known Ives female.
“If you
were not such a wonderful agronomist, I’d think you should take up the position
of diplomat, my dear,” Leila taunted.
Howling
with laughter at the insult, Dunstan dragged her toward their waiting audience.
He might
never take to society’s ways, but he knew he could count on his wife to correct
his faults and foibles. It just might take a lifetime to cure him.
He could
live with that.