Merely Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Sobs jerking her breath, Ninian trudged back to the road, hugging the cat for comfort. It would take weeks to send for her aunts. She could go to the castle and see if the ladies would persuade some of the male servants to aid the village, but it would be tomorrow before she could walk there and back. And it had to be those same servants who had reported the castle happenings to the villagers. Everyone knew what she had done.

  Guilt and shame flooded her as it hadn’t before. It had all seemed so right with Lord Ives holding her. Somehow, he had blinded her to reality. Now, she could see it was all wrong. She had fallen to the devil’s temptation, despite all her wariness and strength, and he’d destroyed all she knew and loved.

  Even as she thought of him, she walked straight into his arms.

  The earl caught and steadied her in the dying shadows of daylight. Even now, with her life crumbling in pieces under the weight of what she’d done, his arms provided a haven of security.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I live here,” she whispered as the cat fled her arms and her head spun with uncertainty. She used to live here. The whole world had turned upside down, and she didn’t know if she was falling off or climbing on. The earl’s strong grip offered safety, just for this minute, just until she found the ground beneath her feet.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  She didn’t even know which home he meant, his or hers. Ninian shook her head in denial. She had to get away from the earl, from the village, go back to the only real home she’d known—her grandmother’s cottage. She didn’t know what she would do once she got there. Tears spilled down her cheeks again.

  He didn’t hug her, probably didn’t know how to offer hugs of sympathy. He merely glanced down at her tear-stained face and drew her deeper into the shadows, toward the cottage.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said in utter certainty.

  And he did.

  In a haze of grief, Ninian watched as the earl shouldered all responsibility and assumed command. He stalked from door to door, commandeering shovels, hoes, and men, sending them to bury dead animals, repair torn roofs, drain swollen ditches. He might lack the ability to connect with people on any personal level, but he knew how to make them jump.

  As the villagers crept from their houses and the earl’s steward arrived to take command, Drogo silently took Ninian’s arm and steered her toward the cottage.

  Sarah waited in the kitchen. “I’ve gathered her things,” she told him. “As quaint and charming as I’m sure this place is, I have no wish to remain here. The ghost was weeping when I left. Claudia is frantic. And Lydie vows the baby will arrive any minute.”

  “You’ll come home with us,” the earl commanded Ninian, leaving it evident he expected no argument by steering her toward the door.

  Ninian knew she should resist. Granny would want her to stay here, to tend the garden, to find some means of helping the village.

  But Granny had left her here all alone.

  For the moment, she couldn’t summon the courage or spirit to fight. She’d always thought friendship worked both ways, but it seemed no one wanted her except when she was useful. She wasn’t useful now. Not to the village. Maybe she never had been. Maybe her gifts were just products of Granny’s imagination and her own pride. They certainly hadn’t aided her in saving the village.

  Silently, Ninian followed the earl and Sarah from the cottage. She was needed at the castle. Maybe in a few weeks, things would return to normal, and she could come home to her garden again.

  Closing the cottage door behind her, not looking at the broken rose canes of her garden, Ninian walked out the picket gate to the cart waiting to take her to the castle of her ancestors and the future fate had in store for her.

  ***

  Drogo rubbed his weary eyes as the candle guttered in a puddle of wax. He’d thought Ninian would have come to him by now. He’d left her in Sarah’s care, but he didn’t expect Sarah to offer much in the way of commiseration. He’d seen that blank gaze of grief before and knew the little witch needed more than sympathy.

  In his experience, the first thing a woman did when confronted with disaster was turn to a man. The second thing she did was look around to see if he was the best man to feather her nest. Since he was the only man on the horizon, he assumed Ninian would be up here sooner or later, looking for the promise of a title. He really couldn’t blame her. A woman had to have strong survival instincts in this world.

  He would gladly offer the comfort of his bed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepared to offer more unless his price was met.

  The sound of feminine feet on the stairs outside his observatory stirred his tired brain, and he smiled. Women were so predictable.

  His smile faded as Sarah entered, wearing only a thin night robe.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said with that false bright smile she used when nervous.

  “The ghost still weeping?” he asked, returning his quill to the stand. He could bury his sympathy for Ninian in work, but he hadn’t been able to quell his arousal at the anticipation of her arrival. Sarah’s presence quickly doused his ardor.

  “No, but you didn’t seem to be sleeping either. I thought you might like company.”

  Drogo shuffled through a drawer and produced a fresh candle, lighting it with the dying flame of the first. “I have work to finish. I have to return to London in the morning.” He knew what she wanted. She hoped to prove she wasn’t barren in the same way he hoped to prove—what? That he could sire bastards as easily as his father? Stupid.

  Her mouth turned down, but she watched him with more curiosity than disappointment. “Your guest is still awake. I heard her crying as I passed by.”

  “She knows where to find me if she needs me,” he answered curtly, returning his attention to the page of numbers on his desk.

  “What if she doesn’t need you?” Sarah asked softly. “She didn’t strike me as the dependent type, like the rest of us.”

  She walked out, but her words nagged in her absence. Drogo glared at the numbers on the page but couldn’t make sense of them any longer. Everyone needed him for one thing or another. The little witch wasn’t any exception, just more stubborn than most.

  And more tempting.

  He shoved back his chair, and picking up his candle, wandered down from the tower to the hall where Sarah had conveniently placed Ninian. Women always came to him, not the other way around. He’d never pursued a woman in his life. He wasn’t pursuing this one. He just wanted to see if she was all right. He certainly didn’t need to seek out any more leeches to suck his life’s blood out of him.

  He could hear her sobs as he stood outside her door. He had no experience in dealing with female hysterics, but he couldn’t bear hearing her cry. She’d been so full of light and mischief yesterday, he hated to hear her pain now.

  Last night, she’d invited him in. He could see no reason why he should stand on propriety tonight. He tested the latch and opened the door.

  She gasped, as she almost always did when he appeared. He wondered if he really was so terrifying to look upon, and only Ninian in her innocence was open enough to show it. She didn’t seem terrified though. She grabbed her sheet and covered herself as she sat up, and she looked furious enough to spit nails. In the flickering light of his candle, he could see the streaks of moisture on her cheeks, but he was more interested in the tangle of golden curls falling over rounded breasts.

  “What do you want, my lord?”

  “I heard you crying,” he said simply, having no other words to offer. He wasn’t a particularly gentle or compassionate man. He vaguely understood her disillusion but knew no real solution other than time. Physical comfort, however, he knew how to give and would willingly offer, if it was acceptable.

  “I cry when I’m unhappy. Don’t you?”

  He thought she was being sarcastic,
but he considered her question anyway. Logic usually worked best in emotional situations. “No,” he finally answered. Not in a long time, anyway, but he didn’t need to explain that. “I waited for you to come to me.”

  In this light, he couldn’t tell if her eyes widened with surprise or anger. At least he’d given her something to think about that stopped her crying.

  “I refuse to be one of your coven,” she announced stoutly. “You may strike me dead, if you like.”

  Not a moonchild, but a lunatic. Staring down into the vehemence of her expression, Drogo sighed in bewilderment and lowered the candle to the table. It was a good thing he was leaving in the morning. “I won’t pretend to understand what that means. I’ll leave you with this. Good night.”

  “You won’t pretend to understand that you’ve brought death and destruction to Wystan?” she demanded.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder, so beautiful with her translucent face illuminated in the candlelight, and her defiant chin tilted proudly. Pity the beauty hid a cracked brain. “The storm brought destruction,” he answered carefully.

  “The burn never flooded like that before. It never died before. Ask your steward what he hides from you. My grandmother was always right. An Ives has ruined us again.”

  If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the wonder and beauty of a golden-haired witch in candlelight, even if she was a lunatic.

  As utterly befuddled by his own reaction as hers, Drogo nodded politely and escaped.

  Twelve

  Awakened by daylight pouring through the windows, Ninian wondered if she’d dreamed the last few days or just last evening’s strange encounter with Lord Ives. As she dragged herself from bed in search of food, she reluctantly accepted that she must decide what to do about the rest of her life.

  She could return to the cottage, raise cats, and plant herbs no one would ever use, and grow into the witchy old lady the villagers expected of her. Alone.

  Unable to accept that forlorn future quite yet, she located the ladies in the same place as the day before—or at least two of them waited there. Sarah had an immense dusty tome on the table before her, while Claudia embroidered the hem of an infant’s nightshirt.

  Sarah glanced up from her reading and gestured at the empty chair. “You’ve just missed Drogo. He’s off to rescue my brother Joseph from Newgate. Have a scone. The jam is heavenly.”

  Not certain whether to be relieved or not at news of the earl’s departure, Ninian took the chair indicated and accepted a cup of tea. “Joseph? He’s an Ives?” The legends had said to beware of Ives. How many of them were there?

  Sarah smiled. “An Ives from the wrong side of the blanket, but we all grew up together.”

  Ninian wasn’t certain she was prepared for this much information about the upper echelons of society. She buttered a scone to keep from thinking too deeply about anything. Pain lay only a thought away.

  “Might I ask how many of you there are?” Perhaps she could grasp enough facts to keep her grounded. Really, if she knew more about these people, maybe she wouldn’t be so afraid of them. Remembering her tirade at the earl last night, she thought again. Maybe she should be afraid.

  Sarah wrinkled her brow in thought. “Well, Drogo is the eldest of the legitimate Ives, of course, since he inherited his father’s titles. Dunstan is the second eldest. He manages the family estate. Ewen is third. I believe it must have been at that point poor Lady Ives decided she could not bear a fourth boy and denied the late earl her bed. I’m not at all certain of cause and effect, you understand, since my mother was married to my father rather than Drogo’s, and I was scarce more than a child at the time.”

  She pushed the plate of scones toward Ninian. “Have another, dear. You must keep your strength up if you are to be a Countess of Ives.”

  Sarah didn’t even take a breath after that strange announcement but continued following the path of her own thoughts. “Ives men are infamous for their prolificacy. There is scarce two years between Drogo and each of his brothers, and my mother bore the earl three more boys once they set up housekeeping. All bastards, my brothers are, of course, but Drogo supports them. He could scarcely do less, since they grew up in the same household.”

  Battered by both the barrage of Sarah’s words and the tension of repressing her emotions, Ninian sipped her tea and eyed her manic hostess with caution. “I see. Of course, you do realize I am a Malcolm?” The question made as much sense to her as Sarah’s chattering apparently made to Sarah.

  “Oh, yes, Drogo did mention that. I’m sure the Malcolm ghost will be gratified to know a Malcolm will once again reside in Malcolm Castle. Although…” She puckered her brow slightly. “Drogo will never be able to stay here for any length of time. I’m certain he will wish to introduce you to the family and take his place in society once he has a child of his own.”

  Ninian smiled and nibbled her scone, wondering if Claudia would join in the idiocy. “You don’t seem to understand,” Ninian replied demurely, wishing them both to the devil. “Malcolms only bear witches. Female witches,” she clarified, not wanting there to be any doubt that she would never bear an Ives heir, wishful thinking or not.

  Lady Twane chirped quietly at this announcement. Sarah only shrugged.

  “Well, that should make for some enlightening entertainment nine months hence, but it’s of no matter. Drogo will marry you once he ascertains you’re with child. You see, he thinks he can’t have children. Lydie chose that moment to shriek her pain and terror from the chambers above.

  Ninian continued nibbling her scone. She recognized the onset of childbirth. There wasn’t any immediate need for hurry.

  With quiet realization, she accepted that now the earl had departed, she didn’t have to leave just yet. She was needed here.

  ***

  Drogo leaned back in his desk chair and studied the coquettish young lady hiding behind her fan. Her hairdresser had styled her powdered hair in tight, white ringlets that emphasized her kohl-darkened eyes and matched her heavily powdered face. He thought the combination of black and white ludicrous, and remembering a natural blend of sun-brightened golden curls and thick brown lashes, frowned at his lack of concentration.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot tell you where Lady Twane is. Perhaps you should consult Sarah,” he added maliciously. The twit in front of his desk would have no more idea of where Sarah was than she did her own sister, but he owed Sarah a grievance. He would let the pests descend on Sarah’s mother. That formidable ogre would make her pay.

  “I am so worried about Claudia,” the lady whispered, rattling her fan, and leaning forward entreatingly. “Could you not help us? Lord Twane is beside himself with grief.”

  “Lord Twane beat the lady within an inch of her life more than once and has expressed his remorse every time. Pardon me for not believing his protestations of grief.” Impatient with his visitor’s patently false display of concern, Drogo picked up his pen. If this baggage thought he’d fall for her charms, she should grow another brain. Claudia’s parents had sold her to the highest bidder, buying her younger sister time to find a wealthy man on her own. They certainly shouldn’t be so enamored of themselves that they thought he would serve in that capacity. Or had the lady got herself with child and needed a title to go with it? That seemed to be the common ploy these days.

  “Oh, but my lord, he truly sees the error of his ways this time. It’s just that he’s been so disappointed that Claudia cannot bear him a child…”

  She stopped just in time, stepping away from Drogo’s dagger glare.

  “Twane has bastards aplenty. Let him adopt a few,” he replied gruffly. “Now go on. I’ve work to do.”

  “Please, my lord.” She sidled closer. “We’ve all been so concerned. Could you tell us where to find Sarah?”

  He hadn’t stood up when she entered, or offered her a seat, a tactical error he regre
tted as she laid an entreating hand over his. She had long, narrow fingers, beringed and bejeweled, unlike the soft unadorned hand that he’d held last. Ninian’s honest touch had rung bells of sincerity somewhere deep in his soul. This woman’s touch rang nothing. Perhaps the little witch had moonbeams for brains, but he couldn’t doubt her innocence. Maybe lunatics were preferable to the deceitful jades of society?

  He leaned back in his chair again and drew the feather of his pen through his fingers. “What hold does Twane have over you? Has he refused your father his quarterly allowance unless Claudia returns? Or does he demand you warm his bed in her place?”

  She paled beneath her already white face powder and drew back her hand. “Don’t be absurd,” she protested.

  But he knew he had her. He knew Twane. The baron possessed an animal lust unassuaged by nightly visits to brothels even as a bachelor. Claudia had confessed some of her husband’s perversions to Sarah, who had promptly regaled Drogo with them, demanding he defend her friend’s honor. He couldn’t, of course. He was no relation. Hell, he had problems enough with his own relations without taking on the problems of friends of relations. There were more needy people in this world than he had time or money to rescue.

  “I suggest you accept the offer of the first man strong enough to protect you, and then get the hell out of Twane’s clutches,” he said roughly. “I can’t help you.”

  Desperately, she clasped her hands over her waist. “He raped me,” she whispered. “He’ll do so again. Please, my lord, you must find my sister.”

  Drogo sighed and rubbed the knot between his eyes. “You prefer your sister suffer in your place? How charming.” Still, her plea jarred him. He couldn’t leave a helpless female unprotected. Curse his dratted conscience; he saw his mother’s desperation in every damned woman whose path he crossed. “I’ll send you to my brother and his wife. They won’t let Twane near you. That’s all I can offer.”