There was a time, long ago, when he, too, had thought that love would be magical. He could remember standing before the tall rigid figure of his father, a monolithic presence to a five-year-old boy. He had forced himself to raise his eyes and look into those of his father. They had the same eyes, same face, same Castlemaine blood. His hands had grown clammy, and he had wanted to wipe them on his thighs, but he’d caught himself, remembering that a marquess and future duke didn’t do such things. He’d had to take deep breaths to get the words past his dry throat. Then he’d done it, told his father he loved him, thinking with childish simplicity that perhaps that was the magic phrase that would win approval. It won cold anger instead.
Love. He viewed it the way an atheist might look upon a crucifix. The word had meaning only for those fools who sought it.
He heaved a heavy tree trunk with strength born of fresh anger and frustration. The forest mist had swelled in the last few minutes, grown even damper. Dew caught in his silver-streaked hair and trickled a lazy path down his temples. The same misty moisture dripped like a child’s tears from the leaves of the trees, peppering the ground and the men who worked to clear the road. The duke’s motions became mechanical, routine, and he stood straighter, more rigid, lost in black thoughts and damaged pride. Before long, his blue eyes grew icy with a scorn born of the fact that the Duke of Belmore had no knowledge of that elusive thing called love.
Joy sat back in the carriage, her imagination swimming not with a picture of a cottage in Surrey but with the hawk-handsome features of a silver-haired duke.
She sighed. A duke. Imagine that. His title ranked just below that of a prince. These were the men in fairy tales and girlish daydreams. At the mere thought of him, she felt a ripple of shock go through her, the same shock his touch had sparked. It was the oddest thing—as if she were truly bewitched.
This was a fantasy come true. He had carried her like a gallant knight in days of yore. She bit her lips to hold back a wee giggle of pleasure. It escaped anyway. Her back still tingled from the feel of his arm supporting it when he carried her through the forest. The faint aroma of tobacco lingered on his clothing, and his breath was warm and wine-sweet when their faces were little more than a kiss apart. And his eyes—those were the eyes of a man whose heart cried out for a little magic.
She hadn’t been carried in a man’s arms since she’d been a small child in the arms of her father. That was one of the few memories she had of her parents, who were long since gone. But this was much different from her memory. When the duke carried her she felt as if spring bees were swarming in her belly, and his scent had made her light-headed. It was odd, but in his arms she had felt as light and free as ribbons in the wind. When she looked into his face, she saw something unknown, intriguing, as if something inside her was calling out to him. It was an eerie feeling even for a witch—a witch who in reality needed to get to Surrey.
She gave a sigh of regret and shook off her reverie. She needed to concentrate on her witchcraft, not on the strength of the handsome duke, how it felt when he carried her, wondering what it would be like if he held her against his chest and lowered his lips to hers . . . .
Beezle wheezed in his sleep, snapping her back to the sensible world. He was wrapped like a sleeping fur around her neck and, as usual, not a whit of help in spell casting. Concentrate, she told herself, concentrate. No more whimsy, Joyous!
Of course, whimsy provided an easy escape when one didn’t know what else to do. And whimsy was safer, since she was certainly courting disaster. She had lost the piece of paper containing her travel incantation—not that it did her much good anyway, with the bottom burned off. No doubt, it was lying on the tower room floor. With only her feeble memory to rely on, she had already tried to recast her spell, substituting the word “chimes” for “bell,” but she had obviously guessed wrong. The result was fifteen felled trees blocking the road. A white witch was supposed to become one with nature, not wreak havoc on it. She took a quick sip of the strong drink the duke had given her.
“And they call witches’ brew vile,” she muttered, certain that a brew of speckled batwings and eye of newt would taste something like this potion. She took another small sip, thinking maybe it was something one had to become used to. It still tasted horrid and did not help relieve the feeling that this time she had really made a muddle of things. She wasn’t exactly sure how to save herself in this situation, and when she thought about the duke, she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to be saved.
“Beezle!” She gave him a nudge. “Wake up, you slothful thing, you.” The encouraging thought crossed her mind that maybe the weasel could miraculously become a useful familiar. Of course, he had to be awake to be of use. She nudged him again. He wheezed and twitched, then draped his paws down over her shoulder and went back to sleep.
“Useless. Absolutely useless.” She sighed, absently scratching his head, which had nestled into the neckline of her pelisse, and stared at the glass of brandy in her other hand and frowned. She moved over to the carriage door and opened it, careful not to put any weight on her throbbing ankle. The men were busy clearing the road, so with a quick flick of her wrist she tossed the brandy into the dirt. She started to pull the door closed, but she couldn’t resist sneaking another peek at the men, the duke in particular.
It was as if her eyes were drawn to him, and an odd sweetness flowed through her at the sight of him. He had cast off his coat and stood at one end of a tree, directing the men. His shoulders were as broad as a Highland laird’s, his hips were narrow, and his legs were long and powerful. His stance was all command and confidence. He seemed to know exactly what to do and the most efficient way to do it. The men moved easily, without struggling. They just followed his instructions and had managed to move half the trees already. He had power and surety of mind. He stepped right in and took control—a trait she sorely envied, considering she had so little control herself.
“You have no control because you do not concentrate, Joyous!” Her aunt’s words came flooding back to her—a sure sign that she should look to her magic and not the imaginary hero of the fairy tale in her mind.
With one last wistful look at the duke, she settled back against the seat and scrunched up her face with the effort to remember. “Now what was that incantation?” she murmured. “Speed . . . heed. Door . . . floor? No . . . Bore? No. Core? For? Gore? Ho—Oops!” She clamped her hand over her mouth. She knew that word was not in the spell. What had she said? “Lore? More?” That was it! “Ring the bell more.” She knew that that was wrong. That choice of words had sent her to the North Road with the Duke of Belmore instead of to a cozy cottage in Surrey. What a fix . . . .
She drummed her fingers on the armrest.
How was she to escape this situation? She was a witch. She should act like one. She would make up her own spell. Her face wrinkled in thought. A few minutes later she had thought up her own incantation, so she took a deep breath and chanted aloud:
Oh, listen to me,
I’m sorely in a fix.
Apparently my spells don’t mix.
So please pay heed, and with due speed,
in a hurry
send me to Surrey!
A loud crack echoed in the clearing, followed by some male shouts. There was another thud, then another, and another. Slowly, with a sense of dread and with her hands covering her eyes, she moved fearfully to the carriage door and peeked through her fingers. Three more trees lay in the road and the men, including the impeccably dressed duke, were all splattered with mud and dirt clods. They did not look pleased. Even the tall blond man with the injured arm was mud-splattered and the nervous, fidgety one was looking skyward as if he expected the heavens to fall at any moment.
Her gaze drifted toward the duke. He took charge immediately and had the men checking all the nearby trees. Control of the situation was in his hands. His voice could be heard well above the others. It was deep and strong, a voice that exuded power. Her mind flashed with the fanci
ful thought that with such a braw and brawny voice, the Duke of Belmore would have made a magnificent warlock.
She watched a dreamy moment longer, then sighed and pulled the door closed before she slid back into her warm corner and elevated her injured foot on the seat opposite her. Settling back against the plush squabs, she looked around the inside of the carriage. The seats were wide and deep, the seat springs covered in a rich emerald green velvet. She ran her hand over the velvet, watching its pile catch and glimmer in the lamplight. Gold braid and thick-fringed tassels held back the velvet curtains that covered the carriage windows. The inside doors of the vehicle were made of highly polished burl, and the brass carriage lamps, with their crystal knobs and beveled-glass shades, glistened and twinkled like captured stars. Looking closer at the shades she noticed that a crest was etched delicately into the glass— falcons. She opened the door again and peered at the crest on the outside of the carriage. It was the same design. A custom carriage. What elegance!
Even more impressed, she closed the door and moved back into her corner, imagining what it would be like to be driven in such luxury wherever one had to go. No need to remember incantations, no need to concentrate. One could just lie back against the velvet and let the world pass by . . . .
“Are you comfortable, Your Grace?” the footman would ask her.
She would lift a hand bejeweled with emerald rings given to her by her devoted husband because they matched her eyes. Then she’d say, “Of course, Henson. I’m going to rest now. Let me know when we reach Brighton. I’m sure the prince is awaiting our arrival. You know what the prince always says, ‘No ball is a success without the Duke and Duchess of Belmore.’“
Then the footman would close the carriage door, and her handsome, regal, commanding husband would lean forward, his hand sliding around to caress her neck, before he pulled her closer. . . and closer . . . until she could smell the tobacco, taste the sweet wine. Then his lips, cool and hard, would press against hers . . . .
Lost in her daydream, Joy had no idea that she had pressed her lips against the carriage window, until she opened her eyes—her mouth still pressed against the cool, hard glass—and stared into the stunned faces of the Duke of Belmore and his friends.
Chapter Four
“What do you suppose she’s doing?”
“I cannot possibly imagine.” Alec stood next to the Earl of Downe, his coat slung over one shoulder. He glanced from Downe, who was frowning in speculation, and Seymour, who was suspiciously silent, back to the girl.
Her eyes were closed and her lips were plastered against the glass like pink leeches. With a quick flash of green, her eyes opened and stared right at him. Then she whipped back against the seat, her face hidden by the side curtain.
“She’s Scottish,” Alec said.
The earl nodded knowingly while Henson assisted Alec with his coat. Then with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the servant and walked around to the opposite side of the carriage. He opened the door and leaned inside.
She looked at him as if she expected him to swallow her in one monstrous bite, and on closer inspection he saw that her color had come back tenfold. She quickly turned away.
“Are you feeling ill?”
After a long, tense moment she mumbled to the curtain, “No, I think I’m going to curl up and die.”
“I doubt you’ll die from a sprained ankle,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. He had been through his share of London seasons and had witnessed the dramas that females could enact.
Strange that it bothered him to think that this girl, with her odd face and even odder behavior, might be as vapid as many of the women he knew in London. For some reason, he wanted her to be as different as her face. He called himself a fool and waited for a response.
None came. She sat there, one small gloved hand across her forehead, shielding her eyes. It was a gesture of someone who’d been hurt.
“Does your ankle pain you?”
“‘Pain’ does not describe how I feel,” she said behind her hand.
“That bad?”
“Worse than you could ever know.”
Tired of questioning the back of her head, he reached out and gently pushed her hand away so he could turn her face toward him. Her face would tell him if she was suffering. The cheeks that turned toward him were so flushed they looked red. “Did you sustain some other injury?”
Panic flashed in her eyes, and she raised a hand to her cheek. “I think . . . I mean . . . a fever. Yes, that’s it!” she said, her words rushed. “I think I have a fever.”
He examined her face. “You do seem flushed.”
“I do, don’t I?” She patted her face as if she could feel the heat of it through her kid gloves. “The window is cold, you see . . . and . . . uh, it cooled my face.” She blessed him with a smile—a bright smile, not the listless smile of someone who had a fever.
“I see. How very resourceful of you.”
“Yes, I did have to think quickly.”
For some reason Alec had the strangest feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes. He tried to counter his confusion with logic. “Did you think about opening the door? It is brisk outside.”
She looked past him at the fog he knew hovered just a few feet above them. “No, I didn’t. But that does make much more sense. That must be why you are a duke and I’m a wi—” She slapped a hand over her mouth so that Alec could see only her wide eyes. Her hand slowly slid away from her lips. “Woman.”
“Your Grace, the fog’s settling.”
Alec turned to Henson. “Did you check the other trees again?”
“Couldn’t find a shaky one in the lot. Every one’s as sturdy as the London Tower. The road’s safe, Your Grace.”
“Fine. Tell the others we’re ready to leave.” Alec turned back and once again had a perfect view of the ostrich feathers on the back of her bonnet. He shook his head and glanced down at her hands, which she wrung nervously. Watching her was like watching a small soft rabbit snared in the iron jaws of a fox trap. Something about her innocence drew him, as did the aura of helplessness he saw in her. For some reason he felt an urge to put her at ease, though he couldn’t remember ever having felt benevolent before. “Miss MacQuarrie.”
She jumped as if pinched.
“We shall take you to an inn and summon a doctor to examine your foot.” And your head, he thought, or possibly mine, since he realized he was staring at the tilt of her lips. He broke his stare and stepped into the carriage, settling next to her just before Seymour and Downe joined them. Within a few minutes the carriage had safely moved through the woods and was on the open road. The fog had thickened and now hovered a bare two inches above the ground.
Alec studied the girl, asking himself what it was about her that caught him unguarded. There were brief moments when she looked at him as if she saw some kind of wonder in him. Women had always stared at him; that in itself was not unusual. His wealth and title drew them like ants. But this Scottish girl was different, with her odd face and her uncanny ability to touch something inside him with a mere look. She was a novelty. He fought the urge to study her longer by looking out the frosty window and seeing nothing.
They lumbered along for a few silent minutes during which Downe once again took out his flask. The earl was Alec’s friend, but he was of late a profligate rascal and was truly obnoxious when he was foxed—an occurrence that seemed to be happening more and more often. He was just preparing to tell him to put the flask away when Seymour gasped. Alec looked at him and saw that his eyes were riveted on the girl and his mouth gaped open. Downe stared too, the flask forgotten for a moment.
Alec looked at her, but saw nothing amiss, and turned back toward his friend.
“Did you see what I just saw?” Seymour asked Downe.
The earl’s answer was to swill a drink and then watch the girl, his eyes narrowed.
Alec looked at her again but saw nothing odd.
“I’ll take that,” Sey
mour said, making a grab at Downe’s flask.
“Won’t help,” the earl said.
“I just saw it again. Watch.”
Again both men looked at her.
“You need to ease up on that stuff, both of you. Hand me the flask.”
“Her collar is moving,” Seymour whispered.
They all stared at her, their gazes locked on her throat. From her expression, Alec could tell her mind was miles away. Probably in Scotland, he thought.
After a moment, during which the fur collar on her jacket twitched and shivered, she must have felt their looks, because she glanced up at the men. She looked at each one and said, “Is something wrong?”
“Your collar is moving,” Seymour told her.
Her hand came up to stroke the fur. “Oh,” she laughed. “This is Beelzebub. I call him Beezle,” she said, as if that explained everything.
A small black-tipped paw flopped over her shoulder and an odd sound came from her neckline. It was not unlike that made by the hot air balloons that ascended from Hyde Park in the summer.
She looked at them and said, “He sleeps a lot.”
Alec stared at the lump of fur he had thought was a collar. “It’s alive?”
She nodded.
It snorted, then wheezed.
“What, may I ask, is a . . . a Beezle?”
“A weasel.”
“So is Downe, but he doesn’t make that horrid noise,” Seymour said, laughing at his own wit, since it was common knowledge that it wasn’t often he could get one up on the earl.
Downe raised one eyebrow.
“You have a weasel wrapped around your neck,” Alec stated.
“Actually he is an ermine weasel, and he likes to sleep there.”
“So would I.” Downe’s eyes rested on her neckline.
“I told you what we should have done with that tree,” Seymour said, glaring at Downe, but only making him smile.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 5