“And a good thing too. You’re a married woman and could only bear him bastards,” the younger first voice declared firmly.
“Now, girls, this discussion has grown quite old. We all owe Drogo more than we can repay in the usual way.”
“If we disappeared tomorrow, Sarah, he wouldn’t notice,” the sad voice replied.
“Well, we know why that is, don’t we?” the bossy voice—presumably Sarah’s—continued. “But the planets say we have a chance to correct that. I’ve brought the herbs from London, and if we’re in agreement that it’s up to us to correct the…”
Ninian hurried away as the voice came closer and the parlor door closed firmly. Heart pounding, she nearly fell through the door at the far end of the hall.
It didn’t sound as if any of the women were married to Lord Ives, but it certainly sounded as if they knew him as a lover.
She couldn’t imagine the enormity of such a thing. She’d read tales of Oriental harems, but Lord Ives was English. And the one lady was married. Was the other bearing his child? Three mistresses rather than wives. She couldn’t comprehend it all.
Uneasiness skittered across her skin, but she ignored it as she discovered the room to which she’d been drawn.
On the other side of the threshold, the frames for enormous windows ran along the entire length of the back wing of the castle. Tile floors still held the remnants of broken glass. Small oak saplings struggled to survive amid the debris of many autumns, protected by the warm stone of the outer wall.
A conservatory. The castle once had a conservatory. How very, very odd.
With her foot, Ninian brushed aside years of dead leaves, exploring the unfurling frond of a fern, the probing stems of valerian. Valerian! Ninian stooped to clear away pot shards and leaves to examine the root. No one willingly grew a plant that smelled so bad unless they meant to use it for sleep disorders or magic rituals.
Exploring farther, she uncovered evidence of old clay pots and disintegrating wooden planters. A few straggling herbs, ones hardy to the region, still survived exposure to the elements. Whatever else had grown here had long since died.
Mary had said the castle once belonged to a Malcolm. The Malcolm women were all purported to be witches.
Ninian cleared aside glass to uncover designs in the tile. She recognized the symbols for sun and moon and stars. This had been the heart of the Malcolm castle then—a wonderful conservatory of healing plants and a tribute to the earth that produced them.
It saddened her to see the soul of the house broken and neglected like this. Maybe this—and not Lord Ives—was why she’d been drawn here.
Even as she dared to think it, the object of her thoughts intruded upon her reverie.
“I should have known I’d find you here.”
Ninian dropped a sprig of mint and swirled to meet the master of the household.
He wore a black traveling cloak and looked as if he’d just come in from a ride. As usual, he wore no wig, and his somber hair was drawn back in a ribboned club. The beginnings of a beard darkened his jaw, and his craggy brows shadowed his eyes as he gazed upon her. Ninian shivered. She had remembered him as an imposing presence, but on her own territory, she had not feared him. She was in his territory now, with nowhere to run should she need to. And he was everything masculine she’d ever dreamed about. The earthy scents of soil and plants surrounding them seemed somehow fitting, and intoxicating.
“It is a pity this room was lost.” She gestured at the rotted frames, seeking solid ground as her senses reeled from the impact of his proximity. Was that the scent of male musk mixing with her own oil of roses?
The earl gave the structure a look of disinterest and shrugged. “I had the fallen tree removed, but there’s little worth saving here. No furniture, only a few broken tables.”
In his knee-high boots and billowing cloak, with those piercing eyes beneath curled eyebrows, he could have been Satan declaring the Earth beyond redemption. Bravely, Ninian stooped to retrieve the mint, crushing it to fill the air with freshness. “This was the heart of your house,” she said quietly.
Dark eyebrows raised. “Not to me. It’s the tower that I prefer.”
Male and female, earth and sun, the distance between both was so great it was a wonder plants grew or children were born. Looking up from her crouched position at the length of the earl’s booted calves and the shiny silver buttons on his breeches-clad thighs, she blinked and looked away again when her gaze traveled a smidgen too far.
His cloak had fallen back from his hips to reveal the tight cut of his breeches. Lord Ives was a very big man. Even the fresh smell of mint couldn’t distract her from a vivid awareness of his masculinity.
“May I see the tower sometime?” Visiting his lair seemed suddenly important to her understanding of this man.
He quirked one eyebrow as he gazed down on her uncovered curls. She’d forgotten her cap. Hastily, brushing off her hands, she stood up. His gaze didn’t rise with her, but now rested on her bodice.
“Only if you have need of me,” he replied enigmatically.
With a swirl of his cloak, he stalked out, leaving Ninian feeling as if she’d just been stripped naked, examined, and found wanting.
Five
“What on earth are you doing?” the lovely woman in the doorway exclaimed, peering from the conservatory threshold but not setting a silk-shod foot beyond.
Ninian halted her sweeping. She’d found enough dried grass on the grounds to fashion a decent broom and had uncovered a large portion of the tiles in the decimated conservatory. “I’m not accustomed to sitting still,” she replied mildly.
“Obviously.” The woman glanced at the little garden of plants Ninian had repotted in an old bucket. “I’m Drogo’s stepsister, Sarah. Let me provide you with more…” She didn’t complete the sentence but turned to leave, gesturing for Ninian to follow.
Stepsister! Not wife. Curious, Ninian wondered if a stepsister could be mistress.
“I will need to wash.” Having never been a servant, she didn’t follow orders well. Setting aside her broom, Ninian stepped over the threshold into the house. She felt inadequate enough in the lady’s stylish presence; she didn’t need to feel dirty, too.
Sarah schooled her obvious impatience and nodded toward another doorway. “The kitchen is through there. They’ll have…” She waved her hand vaguely.
Well, she was accustomed to washing in kitchens. She and her grandmother had practically lived in the service room during the winter to keep from lighting more than one fire. Not that they couldn’t have afforded more fires, but Grandmother had always been tightfisted, and Ninian had more important things to tend than fires.
She brushed herself off, washed as best as possible, and returned to the hall to find Sarah still waiting.
The elegantly slim lady looked her up and down, sighed faintly, then straightening her shoulders, marched toward the hall and the stairs.
Well, she’d always known she wasn’t cut out to be a graceful swan of society, Ninian thought ruefully as she followed Sarah up the stairs. She had a sturdy peasant’s build she couldn’t change with any amount of magic. And no need to change, she reminded herself. She did not look out of place in her own home.
Sarah led her to a bedchamber in a different wing than where Ninian was situated. This wing looked slightly newer and more recently refurbished. She had time to glimpse gleaming mahogany and a brilliantly patterned carpet before her escort pushed open a door and introduced her into a room full of sunlight and exotically garbed women.
Including Sarah, three exotically garbed women, to be precise. Ninian quickly reduced the sensory bombardment to count her escort in blue silk and powdered coiffeur; a hugely pregnant lady in layers of flowing emerald and a frilled cap of dainty lawn; and a thin, timid woman hiding in the shadows.
“Ladies, meet Ninian Sidd
ons. Miss Siddons, Lady Twane, and Lady Lydie, good friends of mine. And Drogo’s, of course.”
The pregnant girl giggled. Ninian noted the flash of vivacious dark eyes and surmised that Lady Lydie had hair as dark as the earl’s beneath her cap. She was younger than the others, scarcely old enough to be carrying a child. Under Ninian’s study, she smiled. “I thought midwives were old, gnarled creatures,” she stated disingenuously.
“You are referring to my grandmother.” Ninian smiled to relieve the effect of her bluntness. “Her hands were arthritic, so I acted as her hands. I’ve learned all she knew, which is more than most London physicians know.” The sarcasm was instinctive. It was in the hands of London physicians that her mother had lost five infants.
“We’ve inquired, and you come highly recommended,” Sarah replied soothingly. “We have no doubt that you’re the best person for Lydie’s lying-in. But it’s the…” She fluttered her hands helplessly and looked to the others. “I feel so foolish saying this…”
“The ghost,” Lady Twane stated firmly, still staring at Ninian. “We want you to send the ghost away. It is most distressing to be woken in the middle of the night by invisible temper tantrums.”
Ninian didn’t think there was a thing she could do about the spirits haunting Wystan Castle, but these women would never believe her until they saw for themselves. They were born of wealth and privilege and thought all their wishes could be carried out on command. They wouldn’t understand that some things were not of this earth and could not be commanded.
“As I told Lord Ives, I am an herbalist, not a ghost-chaser. For that, you will need a priest. But if you wish, I will try talking to the spirits. I make no promises.”
“Priests wear fancy robes and silk scarves and carry incense and candles,” Lady Lydie said thoughtfully, gazing with interest at Ninian’s simple garb. “Perhaps ghosts would be more impressed with your power should you wear something more…”
“Fashionable,” Lady Twane finished caustically.
“Rich and powerful!” Sarah exclaimed. “That is exactly it! We shall give you the power of the church by ornamenting you with…” She waved her hand in a manner Ninian was coming to recognize. “Lydie, you are much the same height as Miss Siddons. You are certain to have something…”
Although Lady Sarah failed to finish sentences, she scarcely seemed the type to fear ghosts. These women hid themselves well behind layers of powder and silk and feathers, but this particular scheme spoke of subterfuge. Ninian sensed it in the air. “I do not think this is at all necessary—”
“But it is!” Lydie intruded. “We are all so bored sitting out here in Drogo’s hideaway with naught else to amuse ourselves. Dressing you like a fashion doll would be oh so amusing, and it’s certain to impress any ghosts lingering in the walls. Say you will, please? Then we can go ghost-hunting after dinner.”
Ninian considered telling them she wasn’t poor and could afford her own silks if she had any desire to wear silk. But the trust fund Granny had left in her care wasn’t anyone’s business but her family’s.
Sarah was already rifling through Lydie’s trunks, searching for the perfect gown. Lady Twane picked at the discards with a disdainful finger, but even she seemed to be interested in the scheme. She radiated pain, Ninian thought. All that submerged anger and grief and pain would be sufficient to wake any ghost from hiding. She suspected removing Lady Twane from the premises would quiet the haunts faster than she could.
“The blue!” Lydie ordered from her reclining position on the upholstered daybed. “It never suited me, but it will be perfect for her fair hair and eyes.”
Ninian thought she ought to remind them that she was several inches shorter than anyone in here, but then she remembered the wealth of undergarments holding up their fashionable material and, panicking, shook her head. “No, please, I cannot…”
“Never say you can’t,” Sarah called from the depths of the trunk. “Look, won’t this cap look sweet if we dress her hair…”
Ninian’s hand flew to her hair. “No! I won’t have flour or pomade.”
“Of course not.” Lydie waved away the protest. “Your hair is much too fascinating as it is, and surely ghosts come from a time when hair wasn’t dressed. The cap with the blue ribbons, Sarah. It’s just a wisp of lace.”
Sarah shook out layers of rich brocade. “Perfect. No panniers. We need a heavy underskirt, Lydie. I saw a white one with gold thread…”
Dazed and bewildered by this sudden barrage of beautiful silks and colors, Ninian allowed them to replace her coarse linen with a frail lawn chemise adorned with layers of lace at sleeve and neckline. She gasped as they tightened the whalebone bodice until she could scarcely breathe, but her protests went unheard until she declared the ghost would never hear her should she faint from lack of air.
The beautiful sky-blue brocade slid over her shoulders and underskirt like a waterfall, and she surreptitiously smoothed the sensuous material as they nipped and tucked it into place. As expected, it fell past the tips of her toes, but they fashioned a sash of darker blue silk and hauled the excess material around her waist and tied it in place. She felt like a stuffed pig, but the ladies oohed and ahhed and praised their own work so highly, she couldn’t be so rude as to say so. Besides, the silk felt wonderful, and decadent.
“I don’t suppose you have knowledge of astrology?” Lady Lydie asked as the others arranged Ninian’s attire. “The stars tell us such wonderful things. Sarah has found this astrologer—”
Sarah hastily cut her off. “Miss Siddons knows about herbs, Lydie, not planets. We need her to teach us how to rid this place of ghosts.”
Covering her mouth with a giggle, Lydie said not another word. Ninian could sense the confusion of emotion surrounding her, but it was impossible to tell what came from whom and why. She just knew they were hiding some conspiratorial secret, and it didn’t take much thought to figure it had to do with her.
They attacked Ninian’s hair next, cutting a fringe of curls around her face and brushing out thick ringlets until they billowed over her shoulders and down her back. They pinned it all in place with the scrap of lace, then stepped back to admire their handiwork.
“The modesty bit isn’t very modest,” Claudia, Lady Twane, noted, just as a gong tolled from deep within the bowels of the castle.
Ninian leapt at the booms. The ladies looked unconcerned by the constant ringing.
“Well, she is a little more well-endowed than Lydie,” Sarah agreed. “But we haven’t time. Drogo will disappear into the woodwork if we—”
“Wait! I can’t go.” Ninian glanced down at the scrap of transparent cloth scarcely covering the valley between the swells of flesh pushed up by her bodice, but Sarah caught her arm and dragged her toward the door. Ninian had seen her mother wear less, but she’d never seen herself as her mother.
“Of course, you can, dear. It’s just us, and you look marvelous. Lydie, dear, do you want your meal sent up or are you able to manage the stairs…?”
That instantly diverted Ninian’s thoughts from herself. “No, she should not be walking those stairs at this stage! I will fetch a tray and bring it up for her.”
Sarah laughed. “We have servants, Miss Siddons.” She glanced over her shoulder at Lady Lydie, who didn’t seem interested in stirring from her reclining position. “We’ll tell you all about it later, Lydie.”
“I want to be there for the ghost hunt!”
“No one comes with me…” Ninian started to protest, but no one was listening.
Laughing, Sarah drew her relentlessly toward the stairs to the public rooms where the earl awaited his dinner. Feeling as if she wore more clothes than she owned but still shivering from exposure, Ninian surrendered the useless fight. She would put on her show of ridding the place of ghosts and leave in the morning. If they wished to make a toy of her in the meantime, what harm could it do?<
br />
The instant she saw Lord Ives’s dark gaze fasten on her, Ninian knew the harm it could do. Her breasts swelled beneath his stare, and her nipples puckered. Had she seen that look on Beltane beneath the moonlight, she would be a lost woman by now, like all the other foolish girls who surrendered their virtue in a moment of moon magic.
After what seemed a thousand eternities, the earl finally lifted his gaze to Sarah and her companion. “I see you found something to amuse you this day,” he said mildly, before offering his arm to Ninian. “Witches should always wear blue.” With that ambiguous statement, he led her into the dining room, leaving the other women to follow.
So nervous she didn’t think she could eat, Ninian clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap as Lord Ives seated the other ladies, then returned to the seat at the head of the table, beside hers. She was uncomfortable with this new awareness of her body. It had served her fine as a place to hang clothes. Her arms were meant for sweeping floors, not looking bare and enticing beneath a fall of expensive lace. She had never thought to have babies so considered her breasts a nuisance, until Lord Ives glanced at the way they pushed above her bodice, and his look burned all the way down to the place between her thighs.
“And this is your idea of ghost-hunting clothes?” he inquired of the table in general as a footman passed around the tureen of soup.
“Of course, Drogo, the very latest…” Sarah gestured and laughed.
“Nay, my lord,” Ninian said at the same time. “But the ladies insisted.”
“The ladies are bored and amuse themselves at our expense. Do not let them make you do anything you do not wish to do.” Lord Ives returned his attention to his soup.
“He never notices us,” Lady Twane whispered in her ear. “It does him good to know other people exist.”
“No whispering, Claudia,” Sarah warned from across the table. “He will ignore us no matter what we say. He’s already calculating arcs and angles in his mind, or pounds and pence, and doesn’t hear a word. He thinks we’re so far from trouble out here, he can forget our existence.”
Merely Magic Page 5