Merely Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “Of course.” Complacently, she glanced out the window at the row of older town houses they passed.

  Other women never stopped talking. He’d married one who didn’t know when to start. Curbing his impatience, Drogo tried again. “I thought witches cast spells, not read minds.”

  She shrugged, but he noticed she clasped her hands a little tighter. “I don’t read minds. I have a gift for empathy. People call us witches for lack of any better word. We don’t cast spells on people, although the weather—” She halted that train of thought. “We just have… special talents.”

  She looked so perfectly sane and beautiful when she said things like that. Her golden curls were a picture of angelic purity, her blue eyes reflected the openness of the sky—and then she hit him with lightning bolts of lunacy from out of nowhere.

  Sighing, Drogo leaned back in his seat and tried to quench a hot surge of ardor. If there was any witchcraft at work here, it was in the way she bewitched him with lust. She already carried his child. He should be satisfied with that.

  “Talents,” he repeated flatly, desperately looking for a thread of rationality. “Not the painting, musical sort?”

  “Well, Lucinda paints wonderful portraits.” She didn’t seem to think the topic irrelevant. “Unfortunately, they tend to reflect the subject’s character a little too clearly. If you have any deep, dark perversions, don’t sit for her.”

  Drogo rubbed his temple and wondered if he should have Ninian sit for her artistic cousin but decided he didn’t want to know the secrets of her soul—or her cousin’s talent—that well. “And your talent?”

  “I’m a healer,” she answered diffidently, clasping and unclasping her fingers. “I just seem to have made a bit of a mess of it.”

  A healer. Well, that almost made sense. Living in the rural countryside without proper medical care, many women learned healing arts. He couldn’t imagine that any of them were very good at it, lacking scientific methods, but even trained physicians often relied on the efficacy of herbal medicine.

  “Sarah said you delivered Lydie’s baby safely and helped it to thrive.”

  “Any decent midwife can do that,” she scoffed. “I should have understood how Lydie’s unhappiness affected the child and treated her accordingly, but I didn’t. I was too worried about myself.”

  That veered a little too far from the rational path. Taking a deep breath, Drogo built a safe bridge over his new wife’s lack of logic. “Sarah says you were better than any London physician. Don’t minimize your talents.”

  The look she gave him should have scalded. He didn’t know what he’d said wrong. He’d intended a compliment. Momentarily floundering, he grasped for a more stable topic, one that would satisfy the taunting questions of his family.

  “Exactly what is the meaning of that vow of equality we took?” he asked bluntly. “What happened to the usual thing, the ‘love, honor, and obey’?”

  Obviously disgruntled, she bunched the white satin of her cape into a ball. “The Malcolm ceremony used to make the groom promise obedience, but the duke balked at that. Grandmother said they fought for six months before he and Aunt Stella reached a compromise. It’s not a difficult concept to embrace, is it?”

  “Women aren’t equal to men.” Already battered by the illogic of Druids and unnatural talents, Drogo refused to let the lunacy continue. The carriage drew up to the house, but he ignored the orderly line of servants waiting on the steps. He wanted to set this straight before his countess developed any more delusions. “Women can’t sail ships, build buildings, learn law, or govern countries. I’d be surprised to find one who could explain how their funds generated income.”

  Sky blue eyes narrowed into hostile slits above apple-round cheeks. “Did my father succeed in gaining access to my trust fund?”

  “Of course not. It’s tied up tighter than the Crown Jewels.”

  “A Malcolm woman established that trust,” she said warningly. “Malcolm women control it, and Malcolm women fund it for the use of Malcolm women. And I know precisely how it earns interest and where to invest it. Aunt Stella may be head of our family, but Grandmother made me the treasurer.” She flung the wad of satin to the opposite seat, composed her features, and offered him one of her dimpled, innocent smiles. “Shall we go in?”

  Not only bewildered, but stunned, Drogo closed his eyes and shook his head in denial. She knew precisely what she was worth.

  The solicitor had refused to disclose the extent of her trust fund, but he had made it apparent that there were sufficient funds to support an entire army of Malcolms.

  Ninian was not only wealthier than he was, but she knew it, and she had still married him and his unruly family. She didn’t need him. She was doing him a favor.

  He had no control over her at all.

  ***

  “The earl does not look like a happy bridegroom,” Stella commented as she nibbled on a petit four from the lavish buffet table and watched Drogo sipping morosely at champagne while the cluster of men around him laughed and pounded each other’s backs. None of them pounded Drogo’s.

  “My husband is a serious man,” Ninian replied demurely, passing up the delicacies in favor of a dry biscuit to settle her queasy stomach. She’d thought the morning sickness had passed. Perhaps the babe objected to the day’s stresses.

  “Do not play the witless fool for me, young lady,” Stella snapped. “Did he blame that disaster of a ceremony on you?”

  “Of course not.” Ninian sipped a little tea in hopes it would stay down. “Drogo is a very rational, very patient man. He is an upright pillar of society, a man of genius, a man who dedicates his life to family, and friends, and friends of family, and…”

  “Your sarcasm is no better.” Her aunt sighed as if bearing the burdens of the world. “You young girls have entirely too many romantic notions. Lucinda weeps daily because her father insists she marry a man of stature instead of the wastrel beau who recites poetry. In my day, we knew our duty to family.”

  Ninian pointed her biscuit in the direction of her young cousin. “If it’s a man of stature the duke wants, he’d better steer her clear of young Joseph. He cheats at cards and won all my sweetmeats.”

  “Then play him for hazelnuts next time.” Stella frowned at the laughing pair. “It’s time we take our leave. Drogo might be a fine catch, but that illegitimate lot of rapscallions he calls brothers are nothing but trouble.” She patted Ninian’s cheek. “You’ll be fine once you learn not to expect romantic fantasies. He may be a little stiff and unbending, but he’s a good man. He’ll take care of you and the babe. Call on me if you need anything.”

  “You’re returning to the country?” Ninian really didn’t need to ask. Malcolms needed woods as roses needed rain. She just wanted the reassuring presence of the familiar a while longer while she adjusted to her new role.

  “You know how to reach me. You should have sent for me sooner when Mother died.” Chiding her softly, Stella patted her again, then hurried to rescue her daughter from the charms of a roguish Ives.

  “We’ll be going, too, dear.” Hermione appeared from out of nowhere. Quiet and unassuming where Stella was bold and loud, Ninian’s younger aunt was still a force to treat cautiously. “These Ives men are much too… how do I put this delicately… virile to tolerate easily. Despite what Stella says, I really do think it might be a mistake to bring our families together.” She smiled prettily from a face unlined by her middle years. “I’m sure you’ll fare well, dear. I don’t mean to insult your young man. But…” She sighed, glancing toward Drogo, who now stood alone, “he is a bit of a thundercloud, isn’t he? Perhaps if I—”

  “No, Aunt Hermie,” Ninian hastily interrupted. “He’s having a little difficulty accepting us, is all. He’ll be fine.”

  Hermione looked doubtful. “If you say so, dear. I do hope you’re reading him rightly. He does look a bit li
ke Old Nick, doesn’t he? But you’re the expert. I’ll bow before your greater knowledge.” She blew Ninian a kiss, and trailing bits of lace and ribbons, mother henned her chicks toward the door.

  Of course, that was the problem, Ninian acknowledged. Her Gift didn’t apply to Drogo. She understood nothing about him. He could be plotting her demise right now, and she wouldn’t even know he was angry.

  Still, she couldn’t subject Drogo to Hermione and her erratic spells. Hermione was a genius with perfumes and possessed a gift for bringing out the best in everyone with her scents, but she simply couldn’t accept she didn’t possess any mystical, occult, or psychic powers. The last time she’d attempted one of the lesser spells in her chap book, heat had curdled all the milk in the dairy for a week.

  Ninian smiled at the memory of her two aunts arguing over that incident. Hermione was as gentle as Stella was arrogant, yet they’d quarreled without once hurting each other. Perhaps Malcolms were strange to others, but she thought they could teach the rest of the population a thing or two.

  Noting the strain on Drogo’s jaw as her aunts and cousins fluttered around him to say their farewells, Ninian swallowed her doubts and crossed the room to relieve him of his onerous task. If Drogo was anything like his brothers, the feminine bombardment of scents, voices, and touches would drive him to the brink, much as all those virile Ives men were distracting her cousins. She thought the families together might resemble multiple Adams and Eves after their apple-tasting orgy, but Drogo’s house was no Garden of Eden.

  He turned and reached for her before she could speak her presence. Although he often appeared totally self-absorbed, he always seemed to know when she was there. Odd, since she could never sense him.

  “Now, if you could only chase away my brothers,” he whispered in her ear as he shook the duke’s hand and watched the last of the Malcolm females flutter out the door.

  “Abracadabra,” she murmured in return, feeling her own female flutter at the warmth of his breath near her ear. She was fortunate that only one Ives male could disturb her this way. She didn’t like feeling so unsettled.

  He didn’t laugh at her jest but regarded her with suspicion. Ninian sighed. She liked him much better as a natural philosopher who thought her a silly twit and not the arrogant male who protected all under his roof. She could already see the disadvantage of being a wife.

  Fear prickled across her skin at that thought. She was married. Her child had a name. Would her husband allow her to return to Wystan or was she a prisoner of her decision?

  Drogo’s hand raised from her shoulder to tease at a sensitive spot just below her ear. “If I leave them with the champagne, do you think we could disappear upstairs?”

  She wanted to turn and head for the stairs right now. Just the husky suggestiveness of his voice aroused a tingle that danced along her skin. The memory and anticipation of his lovemaking had haunted the back of her mind throughout the day’s chaos. Now that she knew the power of his touch, she craved it constantly. The bond between them was deeper than the physical now, blessed by church and family. There was no reason at all to deny what they both wanted.

  Except an instinct far older than time.

  “Will we leave for Wystan in the morning?” she asked innocently.

  “The session is not over, moonchild. I cannot leave.” He murmured the endearment seductively, as if no other words but that one mattered.

  “I can travel alone,” she suggested, but the queasiness in her stomach lurched in expectation of an answer she didn’t want.

  “When we travel, we travel together,” he said firmly.

  “Then pray we travel soon, before the heat consumes us.” Donning her best dimpled smile, Ninian bobbed a curtsy and sailed off for a long chat with Dunstan’s wife.

  She no longer saw her husband as the fantasy devil of legend, but as a man. Devils wreaked havoc and ruin, then had the courtesy to disappear. Men lingered to cause trouble a lot longer.

  Twenty-one

  “She’s lovely, Drogo,” Lady Margaret Ives said stiffly. “And her family is exceptional. I congratulate you.”

  His mother had refused to attend the wedding breakfast to show her disdain for his father’s by-blows, but she hadn’t been able to resist stopping by to greet him privately. Drogo had been only six when his father had removed him from her house, and they’d never developed a proper relationship, but he respected the pain she must have endured.

  “Thank you. Shall I call her in to meet you?” he asked out of politeness. His mother had refused to come to his house before this, and he refused to go to a house where his younger brothers were not welcome. Ninian had not questioned the arrangement. She seldom questioned anything. He’d once thought that convenient. Now, he was beginning to wonder about her lack of curiosity. She’d avoided him ever since what he suspected was a disagreement about traveling to Wystan. With Ninian, it wasn’t always easy to tell.

  His mother looked at him curiously. “I’ve already met her, dear. Dunstan brought her to call on me last week.”

  Drogo didn’t know whether to hold that against Dunstan or Ninian. One of them should have mentioned it. He nodded knowingly. “Of course, I’d forgotten. I’ve been rather busy lately.”

  “You’re always busy, just like your father. Now that you have a young bride, you’d best find time for her or risk losing her,” she warned.

  Drogo tried not to wince. His brothers might not know, but his father had told him of the girl child Margaret had birthed, a child that had not been his father’s and that had died at birth. What had gone wrong between his parents was a long time ago, but the repercussions still resounded to this day. He would do well to take her warning to heart. It might be fashionable for wives to take lovers after providing the required heir and spare, but it wasn’t sane. And above all else, Drogo intended to approach marriage sanely.

  “I’ll do my best.” He hesitated and sighed. It had been a long day, and where he’d hoped to be closer to his new wife by the end of it, it seemed they were more distant than ever. He had little in the way of female guidance to explain what he’d done wrong. “But I have little practice at it,” he admitted.

  “Think of her as one of those stars you prize,” she said dryly, gathering up her gloves. “Study her as you do the night skies.”

  He was afraid of what he would discover if he did. Not liking that realization, he nodded politely and escorted her to the door.

  The September sun had already disappeared into the fog banks over the river as his mother gathered her skirts and climbed into her coach. He’d see no evening star twinkling through the murk. His brothers had already departed to their own separate activities, expecting him to celebrate his wedding night with his bride.

  He didn’t know where the hell his bride was.

  Returning inside, Drogo climbed the stairs to see if he could locate her in her chamber. She didn’t seem to think it necessary to tell him where she was going or what she was doing, even on their wedding day. She’d lived like a creature of the forest most of her life and was more independent than most females of his acquaintance. He supposed he could adapt to that. He really didn’t need another person to watch and worry over. He just couldn’t help worrying about her naiveté—or her befuddled mind—in a city this size.

  No candle lit Ninian’s room. No fire warmed her grate. No graceful silhouette danced in the misty light from the windows. More disappointed than he was willing to admit, Drogo turned to his own room, but he had little hope of finding her there. Not once had she ever come to him.

  Finding it empty, as expected, he ordered fires in both grates and set out in search of his straying wife. This was his wedding night. He’d had high expectations of this day, but as he’d told her before, he was used to disappointment. Still, he didn’t give up. There was all the night ahead of them. He’d not understood how little joy he had in his life until he
realized how much he was looking forward to nights in Ninian’s bed.

  All his life he’d been the responsible one, the one who had led his drunken father home, the one who returned his mischievous brothers to their tutors, the one who managed the account books and the solicitors and the matters of estate. His stolen moments he’d devoted to stargazing and the astronomical calculations that so fascinated him. He didn’t have an imaginative mind, but he liked to think there might be life on other planets, or perhaps the Greek gods resided there, and that some day he would find proof. It was the only fantasy he allowed himself, outside the bone-deep desire for a child of his own.

  He didn’t even know why he wanted the child. He’d never held his brothers as babies or dandled them on his knee. He’d always considered them a constant source of interruption and little more. Perhaps it was his one arrogance to have what he thought he could not. He had little experience with women, seldom took them seriously, avoided them at all costs except in bed, but they possessed the one ability he could not duplicate—the ability to procreate. For that, he was willing to allow Ninian into his life. Somehow.

  After searching the nursery, inquiring of Sarah, and checking all the public rooms, Drogo still hadn’t found her. The house wasn’t as extravagantly large as the castle. It had been his grandfather’s, and Sarah’s mother, Ann, had detested it. His father had built a more modern one for her in the suburbs of Hyde Park Corner. Once he’d come of age, Drogo had insisted on moving in to attain some privacy from his motley lot of brothers. That had lasted just long enough for the first one to be kicked out of school.

  Unless Ninian had run away, there was only one place left to find her.

  Taking the back door above the kitchens, Drogo lifted his lamp and searched the darkened garden. His heart caught in his throat as he saw her lonely figure seated below him, slumped on the damp ground, with the fog swirling around her cascade of hair. She never wore it up as other women did, and he was glad of it. He loved the wild abandon of her curls.