Chemistry of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Dare was too muddled to know how to respond. His head ached. His leg hurt worse. “Erran is here?” he finally worked his tongue into asking, although all he wanted was Emilia.

  “The whole family is gathered,” Celeste said cheerfully. “The marchioness could have her babe any day now. It takes an entire village to keep Ashford from tearing walls down with his bare hands.”

  “Is that supposed to make sense?” Dare asked warily. “Or am I too ill to comprehend?”

  “Ah, you don’t know the marquess very well,” she said, rising. “I’ll send for Emilia. Pascoe’s twins are leading her and Will’s animals a merry chase, but it is probably time for them to settle down.”

  She signaled a servant, and Dare reserved his strength for Emilia’s arrival. He lay there feeling the warmth of the sun through the room’s mullioned window, the pull of air in his lungs, the beating of his pulse. He was alive. He gave thanks to whatever superior being took credit, closed his eyes, and clung to consciousness.

  Even with his eyes closed, he knew the moment Emilia entered. The room filled with the scent of lavender, and the air practically vibrated with life. He held out his hand, and she placed her slender one in it. He breathed fully for the first time in recent memory.

  “I’m alive,” he told her, because that seemed most important.

  She laughed softly, leaned over, and kissed his bristly cheek.

  “For now,” she said solemnly. “We’ll see how well you fare once you are up and surrounded by Malcolms and Ives. Your mother is rather overwhelmed, but your sisters are holding up amazingly well.”

  “My mother?” Dare asked in incredulity, forgetting the next important thing he meant to say.

  “Of course, she feared for your life as we all did. Your daunting family took a mail coach before we could send a carriage. Are you up to a little broth? Or are you tired of it? We’ve been spooning it down you for a week.”

  He summoned the strength to open his eyes again. His beautiful wife perched on the bed near his hip. The sun caused her black hair to gleam almost blue to match her glorious thick-lashed eyes. Pink colored her cheeks and lips. “You don’t look like a wraith,” he told her.

  She laughed. “Thank you, I think. You do though. We’ll set you to chasing the twins as soon as you’re well.”

  “Will I be well?” he asked, testing his leg by shifting it toward her curvaceous bum.

  “Your leg is healing,” she said with obvious relief. “And you’re awake again. Bridey says those are very good signs, if we keep you from any more brawls.”

  In other words, the consumption hadn’t magically dissipated, but he might have years ahead, if he took care of himself. Dare brought her hand to his mouth, kissed it, then tugged her toward him. “I’m not ready to leave you just yet. Tell me what to do so I may recover to annoy you for a while longer.”

  She folded up beside him, kissing his cheek, hiccupping on a sob. “I’ve been so frightened. I’m not ready to lose you yet either. I don’t think we’ve taken enough time to learn each other.”

  “That’s it. We’ll get to know each other so well that we’ll hate each other before I die,” he crowed. “I can do that. Now, I want more than broth, please.” He hugged her tight and covered her hair with kisses.

  Chapter 21

  “I have brought samples of the wallpaper and fabric we’d like to use to repair the study.” The dowager Lady Dare presented the box of colorful paints, papers, and fabrics as if they were jewels.

  Emilia smothered a laugh at Dare’s stunned confusion. He was up and around now, looking so much better, but it was hard to keep him from pacing the hall with the marquess. Restlessness was his nature, and he needed an outlet. His mother obviously knew that about him but didn’t quite comprehend his interests. Emilia didn’t think decorating would hold his attention long.

  “The colors are interesting,” she said for him. “Such brilliant greens! Will you re-do the settee and pillows as well?”

  While her mother-in-law chattered of her plans, Dare limped around the private parlor of their suite, his physical presence and energy nearly vibrating the small chamber. His leather trousers were loose enough to conceal his bandage. His valet had arrived with a trunk full of clothes, but Dare was still wearing unstarched linen and a loose tweed coat, all that this rural outpost required. He was shaved and his hair had been properly cut so he looked as healthy as any of the Ives men wandering in and out. Her heart swelled with joy just watching him—even knowing the pain he concealed.

  He finally stopped behind Emilia to toy with her hair. Once, she might have been annoyed that he loomed over her, but no longer. Having him almost healthy and strong was worth all his masculine intimidating tactics.

  “I thought you were looking for a new house,” Dare said in irritation. “Why should I decorate for Peter? Give the sample box to him.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Dare’s cousin had accompanied his mother and sisters to Wystan. Had he known at the time, her husband would probably have recovered just to taunt his heir.

  Once he’d proved he wasn’t on his death bed, Dare had sent Peter into Harrogate with Lord Erran. Concerned there might be forged deeds floating about, Erran was still tracking down Weathersby’s investors. Since Peter knew businessmen in Harrogate, Dare had thought he might be useful, but Emilia knew that mostly he wanted to drive his annoying insect of a cousin out of the house.

  “We don’t intend to move until we must,” Lady Dare said, essentially refusing to admit he would die. “It’s our home.”

  “Fine then, re-do the whole house, if it makes you happy,” he told her. “I’ll talk to the bankers about increasing your household allowance.”

  His mother beamed as if he’d bestowed the moon and stars upon her. “You are such a dear boy! I thought we should update the salon for Isolde’s come-out next year. I’ll leave these with you so you can tell me which you prefer.”

  She hurried off to pass the good word to her daughters—just as Dare had planned, Emilia knew. Her husband was a conniving sort. She tilted her head to look up at him as he stalked the room. “She is so beautifully easy to please. How on earth did she have a son like you?”

  “Bad luck, I’d say.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head and brow. “How long must we stay here? Now that the negotiations on the railroad are completed, I would like to return to my workshop.”

  “The duke has promised to visit here soon to tell me what he thinks of the pharmacopeia. We’re hoping he’ll arrive in time for the birth of Ashford’s heir. Might we stay a little longer?”

  “So Wystan magic can create an heir for me?” he asked jestingly.

  “You need to rest more and you know it,” she said in disapproval. “You are only just now out of bed and aren’t able to stand long on that leg, much less engage in vigorous activity.”

  Their lovemaking had been limited to hands and mouths while Dare recovered. She still held hope of Wystan magic though—when the time was right, and he was strong.

  “I think we can do just as successfully at home, but I know you wish to meet the duke,” he acknowledged, sliding his hand down to her breast. “Shall we practice magic tonight?

  She grew warm just thinking of it. “Perhaps, if you rest yourself today instead of pacing like a caged tiger. Why don’t you use one of the spare rooms here for your experiments? They may not have custom-made glassware, but surely they have plenty of everything that might substitute.”

  “I was testing arsenic compounds, looking for a means of showing visible evidence of its presence. I need a source of heat, various minerals to combine it with, and of course, products containing arsenic.”

  “I thought the problem was that almost everything contains arsenic? The castle is full of lamps of all sizes to provide a flame. Borrow glasses from the kitchen. What minerals do you require? Could you ask Ashford? He controls mines all over this area. He might know where you can obtain what you need. Besides, it w
ould give him something to do besides shouting at the servants.”

  Which he was doing now, apparently. They could hear the marquess’s bellows from the far end of the corridor, followed by his wife’s laughing reply.

  “You are a brilliant woman with strange relations,” Dare said, coming around the chair and holding out his hand to help her up.

  “Ashford is merely a cousin-in-law. You’re the one whose mother hauls wallpaper to your deathbed. You should hold that over your fire and test for elements. It’s a most noxious green and I don’t know how you can tell her to cover your walls in it.”

  Dare gave the box an evil look. “I hated that paper in the study.”

  “So you kept scorching it.” She laughed and kissed his glower away. “Without you around, it will remain on the walls for a hundred years. Perhaps you can convince your mother it’s the wallpaper’s fault for scorching too easily, and she should paint the walls a nice bright cream. Now I must pay my respects to Christie. She grows bored confined to her chambers.”

  “She doesn’t sound bored,” Dare said, listening to the laughter filling the corridor. “She sounds as if she’s driving Ashford crazy. So I will heroically rescue him while you entertain his lady. If vile odors fill the air, don’t say you weren’t warned.” He hefted the box of decorating material, placed a hand at her back, and steered her into the mayhem of Wystan Castle.

  “Are you trying to make yourself ill?” Ashford demanded, peering over Dare’s shoulder as he set a makeshift beaker over a flame.

  Taller, broader, and more muscular than most men, Duncan, Lord Ashford, overwhelmed the small chamber with just his physical presence. His authoritative presence was even larger. Dare still ignored the mighty marquess.

  The gas and smoke from his last experiment permeated the air of the windowless closet Dare had appropriated for his work. He assumed the chamber had once been a priest’s private chapel, deconsecrated in Cromwell’s time. The stone altar was perfect for his workbench.

  As the contents of the beaker began to burn and smolder, Dare coughed and waved the stench from his face. “I’m already sick. I don’t think smoke can make me sicker. Am I bothering the ladies?”

  “Down here, you’re only bothering the rats. But this rot smells damned poisonous. What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “A better way to poison rats? Mostly, I’m trying to determine how to detect different arsenic compounds so physicians won’t keep poisoning people with their quackery. Arsenic trioxide, for instance, creates arsine gas when treated with nitric acid and zinc.” Dare captured the smoke from the heating wallpaper in an awkward contraption created out of a glass decanter and the hollow stem of a broken wine glass. “But gas isn’t visible and doesn’t prove anything except to me. I need discernible evidence.”

  “That smoke is damned visible and stinks worse than garlic. I’m regretting sending for the chemicals. Why the devil are you testing wallpaper?”

  “I’m also testing paint, water, herbs, and anything else the women hand me, but the wallpaper is particularly fascinating. Look at how the paint changes color. How the devil are they making these dyes? Hand me some of that charcoal over there.”

  Only after Ashford handed him the lump in wry silence did Dare realize he’d just ordered around one of the most important men in the kingdom. But the talk of poisonous smoke had ignited a new theory.

  “Are you not stretching your distaste for this wallpaper a little far?” Ashford asked, apparently unperturbed by being reduced to the task of coal carrier.

  “Cover your nose,” Dare ordered, using his own handkerchief to do the same. “Fragments may escape this contraption.” He added the charcoal to the beaker.

  They both watched as a shiny black powder formed inside the tube from the smoke of the heated wallpaper.

  “Damn, I didn’t expect that,” Dare whispered, watching the particulate floating into his makeshift beaker. “I’ve been poisoning myself.”

  Holding linen over his nose, Ashford peered at the black powder. “Or your mother has,” he added helpfully. “She chose your wallpaper, did she not? Are you saying that powder is poison?”

  “Arsenic, if I do not mistake. I’ll have to test further. I just did not think. . .”

  “Arsenic? Are you sure? We sell copper to paint and dye manufacturers, but not arsenic,” Ashford offered. “Can you be poisoned with copper?”

  “Arsenic is a naturally occurring element often found in combination with copper. The process by which they’re creating this pigment. . .” Dare began scribbling notes. “There is a very good possibility that the copper contains arsenic. I need to find out more about their process.”

  “And you have been regularly burning your wallpaper?” Ashford asked in astonishment. “And breathing these particles?”

  “Just heating the wallpaper would release the gas. My study is decorated completely in this noxious green. The dye could be in the wallpaper, the paint, the fabric on my chairs! I’ve spilled chemicals on them, smoked them, heated them, thrown water at fires and soaked them since my youth. And all this time, they’ve been giving off arsenic in gas and dust and fabric lint! I have been inhaling poison all my life.”

  Ashford leaned over, turned off the lamp, and shoved Dare toward the door. “Remove yourself now, go breathe some fresh air before you keel over.”

  As they hit the corridor, a clear celestial song echoed down the stone staircase. Ashford paled.

  “It’s time!” With only that warning, he loped off.

  “I will need you here when my time comes,” Bridey had explained as she ordered Emilia to accompany her in the birthing of Ashford’s first child. “I’ve done my best to train the Wystan midwives about cleanliness, but your knowledge of herbs is superior to mine, and your gift is beyond valuable. The marchioness is strong and healthy and this should be an easy birth for you to learn from. I have not been so fortunate, so I want the best talent available when my time comes.”

  Emilia understood Bridey’s desperate desire for a child of her own. Pascoe’s twins were adorable. He had his heir. But that wasn’t the same as having a piece of one’s self to love and nurture and provide hope for a brighter future. For her own reasons, she was more than a little interested in learning about this next step in being a wife and woman.

  So Emilia joined the other females in the castle in lighting candles, chanting, and welcoming the new infant into the world. Celeste’s gifted voice soothed and celebrated at the same time. A modest woman of large and generous nature, Christie, Lady Ashford, seemed delighted with the entire ceremony and joyfully joined in the chant when she was not gasping with her contractions.

  As lavender incense perfumed the air and music vibrated the walls, Emilia sensed the stirring of the castle’s ancient spirits. It was almost a physical sensation of a veil lifting between worlds, combined with sensual anticipation. Maids and ladies alike held hands and repeated the old songs, occupying a timeless universe with all the centuries of women who had come before.

  The ceremony kept the men at bay until the cry of the newborn pierced their songs and the air shivered in jubilant triumph.

  “A boy,” Bridey cried in delight, lifting the red, kicking infant into the air for inspection. “Ashford has his heir!”

  “And I will call him Malcolm,” the marchioness announced, holding out her arms for the babe.

  “Over my dead body!” Ashford roared, forcing his way past the barrier of women as they released each other’s hands and allowed him in.

  Emilia chuckled, and at a nod of approval from Bridey, she slipped away.

  Appearing amazingly healthy in an unfastened coat and waistcoat that revealed his wide chest, Dare waited impatiently in the corridor. “Now,” he demanded, his hungry gaze practically ripping her clothes away before he lay a hand on her.

  “Now, yes,” she agreed, feeling the excitement shivering the old walls. Tonight, the spirits walked.

  Chapter 22

  Emilia inhaled deepl
y of the musky scent of Dare’s shaving soap. She loved that he didn’t use the sweet soaps other men used, or perhaps his natural scent neutralized the perfume. Whichever, the fragrance was seductive in itself. When combined with the knowledge that he’d bathed and shaved while waiting for her. . . He made her feel special, as if he truly noticed her preferences and cared enough to indulge her. Nothing could arouse her more than to know that this brilliant, dashing man considered an uninteresting creature like herself worth his time and trouble.

  When he led her back to their shared chamber, and she saw what else he had done, she nearly wept in disbelief at his attention to seductive detail—for her. He’d lit the room with flickering lavender-scented candles, filled glassware with every flower blooming in the village, and had a hot bath steaming before the fire.

  “I think I’ll keep you,” she murmured senselessly, wiping at a tear threatening to roll down her cheek. She swung around, stood on her toes, and hugged his neck while spilling kisses over his jaw.

  When Dare’s mouth deliberately covered hers, she nearly expired of shock and pleasure.

  They’d been married for over a month, and they’d not once properly kissed. His mouth was hot and demanding, and she nearly swooned from the sensual power of his hunger. Beneath his insistence, she parted her lips, and the sweet invasion of his tongue shot desire straight through to her womb. Who had time for a bath at a time like this? She tore eagerly at his neckcloth.

  His hands worked the fastenings of her bodice while she tugged his linen loose. She groaned beneath the intense torture of his mouth as Dare backed her toward the bed. Emilia took advantage of his unfastened coat and waistcoat to run her hands over the linen covering his chest, until he undid his placket buttons so she could tug the shirt free of his tight trousers.