“By all means, Countess,” he agreed with only a slight slur and stagger as he attempted a bow. “Coffee and a roaring fire for me.” He toddled back down the stairs.
Drogo helped her to her feet. “I’ll handle Dunstan. You go back to bed.”
Sometimes, even the brightest of men could be so obtuse. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his scratchy cheek. “Help Dunstan into the sitting room. I’ll stir the coals.”
Dunstan was already heading back down the stairs after Ewen. Torn, Drogo looked from one of them to the other, and giving up, chased after Dunstan.
The tinder Ninian added to the coals was burning merrily by the time Drogo steered his brother to a chair and flung him into it. Dunstan collapsed like a broken doll and buried his face in his hands.
“He’s drunk,” Drogo said unnecessarily. “He never used to drink.”
The wind whistled through the chinks in the wall, and for the first time, Ninian couldn’t distinguish between the wind and the ghost’s vibrations. The distress level in here was much too high.
Behind Dunstan’s back, she patted Drogo’s arm. “Hurry Mrs. White and the coffee. He’s frozen clear through,” she whispered. Drogo would understand physical peril much better than if she told him his brother was dying of guilt.
Nodding reluctantly, acknowledging there was little he could do that Ninian couldn’t do better, Drogo strode off in search of hot refreshment.
As soon as he was gone, Ninian pulled a second chair close to Dunstan’s. He didn’t look up or respond to her presence. She’d seldom dealt with grown men in pain. They came to her for cuts and scrapes, but not with wounds so deep they weren’t visible. She wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed, except that she knew she must. This was Drogo’s heir. She could not give him a son, so she must save the heir he had.
“Dunstan.” Quietly, she reached for his hands, sliding her own between his callused palms and his face. The pain was almost unbearable, but this was something she knew how to control. She channeled it to a part of her mind that could deal with it while concentrating on her patient.
“Dunstan. It’s just me. Tell me what is wrong.”
His fists gripped hers so hard it hurt. His whole huge frame shook with the force of his anguish. Anger burned as deep as the pain, however, and anger won out.
He tore his hands away, sat up, and glared at her. All the mighty Ives rage wrote itself across his thunderous brow and stubbled jaw.
“I’m a murderer, madam. I have killed my wife.”
Thirty-two
“Merry Christmas, big brother,” Ewen said wearily, sipping at his black coffee and stretching his legs before the roaring kitchen fire. “Don’t say I never gave you anything. Dunstan is a damned rough gift to deliver.”
“I don’t suppose you’re capable of telling me why you delivered him?” Drogo accepted a cup of bitter brew from his brother while listening for any unexpected noises from above. He needed to return to Ninian, but he thought they might stand a better chance of reaching the bottom of this by dividing and conquering.
He was coming to rely on her warped logic far more than was good for him.
Ewen glared blearily in his direction, grimaced, and took another sip of coffee. “Not a pretty tale at this hour. Go back to your omniscient wife and ask her.”
Stubbornly, Drogo dug in his heels, although the crack about his wife’s “omniscience” rang alarms. How had Ninian known Dunstan was near? And in trouble? She’d never claimed to be a mind reader. But empathy? He shook his head. Perhaps she’d had a letter from Sarah and hadn’t wanted to tell him about it.
“Ninian will be prying Dunstan’s version of the tale from him. You’d better state your case here.”
Ewen grunted something incomprehensible and managed another swallow of coffee. Finally emptying the cup, he held it out for another.
Mrs. White had already bustled upstairs to prepare rooms. Drogo had sent the cook away. With a sigh, he refilled Ewen’s cup from the pot on the fire.
“He was going to kill himself.” Ewen grimaced, whether at the coffee or his explanation, it was hard to tell.
Ninian would have known what to say. He needed Ninian here.
Drogo sank onto a bench and stared at his besotted brother. The usually dapper Ewen looked as if he’d been dragged through every mud puddle between here and London. A bruise scored one side of his jaw, dangerously near his eye. Ewen wasn’t as strong or as quick with his fists as Dunstan. He’d taken a lot of punishment for what he obviously perceived as his good deed.
“Why?” was the only word that came to Drogo’s bewildered mind. Why Dunstan, his heir, the brother he relied on most? Why was the sky blue? Nothing made sense.
Ewen shrugged out of his damp coat. “He thinks he killed Celia.”
Drogo took a deep breath as screams ripped through his head. “Celia is dead?”
“Yup.” Morosely, Ewen retrieved his cup from the table and sipped again. He looked at it with distaste. “Couldn’t we add whiskey to this?”
Excellent idea. Shattered by the news of Celia’s death, Drogo bumped around the kitchen searching for anything remotely alcoholic. Grabbing the cooking brandy, he returned and added a large dollop to both cups. He needed Ninian desperately now. He couldn’t deal with this. He could deal with brawls and exploding carriages and the juvenile mischief his brothers dumped at his door—physical activities that had a beginning and an end and a solid reality he could handle.
He couldn’t deal with suicide and death. He’d dealt with his father’s death by controlling estate finances and his brothers with an iron hand. He couldn’t control death.
Celia had been barely twenty, a mere child with her entire life ahead of her.
“How did she die?” he demanded.
Ewen shrugged and sipped generously of the liquored coffee. “That’s a matter of some debate, apparently. You need to ask Dunstan. He claims he killed her. Personally, I think he had every right to.”
Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. Drogo rubbed his brow and wondered how soon he could go to Ninian with this tale. Then he wondered why he should bother her with it. He was the one responsible for his brothers. Not her. Since when had she become such an indispensable part of him?
“Celia was a foolish little girl. What did she do to deserve to die?”
“Broke Dunstan’s heart,” Ewen answered grimly. “He loved the little twit. He believed her when she said she was visiting with your wife’s family. He believed her when she said they gave her diamond bracelets. She wasn’t foolish or a girl. She was a jade, first, last, and always.”
Oh damn. Oh thrice-bedamned curse of the Ives. He should never have protected his brothers from the truth of their parents’ marriage. He should have emphasized the dangers of ever linking themselves to any woman. Ives weren’t meant to marry. Procreate, obviously, but not marry.
Then why the hell did he think Ninian was different?
Casting that irrelevant thought aside, he focused on the more immediate problem. “Celia found a lover?”
Ewen nodded wearily, resting his head on his hand. “Everyone knew it but Dunstan. They cavorted about London, attending the balls and soirees Dunstan scorned. He dressed her in the silk and jewels she craved.”
“Who?” Drogo asked with deadly calm. He would kill the bastard.
Seeing the murder in his eyes, Ewen shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. He died with Celia. If Dunstan killed him, I don’t blame him in the least.” Running his hand through his hair, Ewen looked uncertain. “I suppose there’s one thing you ought to know.”
Drogo waited. He was a patient man. He would have the whole story, and he would throttle whoever was responsible. Dunstan was his heir. He would never do anything so insane as to murder his wife. If Dunstan had murdered his wife’s lover, Drogo would defend his right to do so.
“Celia met the man while visiting with your wife’s family. That’s where Dunstan thought Celia was before she died.”
He’d told Ninian no good could come of that connection. She’d ignored him. Controlling his rapidly disintegrating emotions, Drogo coldly continued his interrogation. “How did she die?”
“A broken neck. She was found at the bottom of a cliff between Ives and the duke’s estate. Her lover had a pistol ball through his heart.”
Dunstan was handy with his fists but not a sword. In a duel, he would have chosen pistols. Their accuracy was undependable, but a body wound almost always ended in death, sooner or later. Drogo kneaded his brow, wishing he could arrange his thoughts more coherently.
“The law?”
Ewen shrugged. “Don’t know. I was at the duke’s with everyone else when I heard about the discovery of a man’s body. Dunstan had refused to attend the festivities, saying he had some beast birthing too early or some such. I rode out with the duke and a few others and was there when they discovered the abandoned carriage and horses, as well as Celia’s body. There was no evidence pointing directly to Dunstan. It could have been highwaymen, except she still wore all her jewels.”
Ewen closed his eyes and spoke carefully. “I told everyone I would ride to Ives to break the news to Dunstan. The duke very generously did not insist that someone accompany me. I rather think he sympathized with Dunstan and didn’t wish to become involved in a marital dispute.”
Drogo waited, knowing what would come. If Dunstan had done it, he would have taken the honorable way out. His heart curdled in his chest as he thought about it.
“I found Dunstan in his barn, cleaning his pistol. He was already six sheets to the wind, but he knew what he was doing. He tried to load the gun before I took it away, but I knocked him down. I had to have help to hog-tie him, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I brought him here. As far as the servants are aware, he knew nothing of Celia until I arrived, so I thought it best to keep him from the magistrate.”
Very carefully, Drogo set his cup down. Holding his shoulders back, trying not to breathe too deeply, he dragged himself up. “The housekeeper will have prepared a room for you. Get some rest.”
Without thanking Ewen, without acknowledging the tale told, he stiffly strode from the kitchen. Every fiber of his body protested the tale. He relied on Dunstan’s stability and sense. Dunstan would never have done something so patently useless. Dunstan would have thrown the lying slut out of the house—just as their father had their mother.
Oh, God, none of this made sense. They were cursed. It was only a matter of time until Ninian proved it. Why the hell was he so certain the child was his?
Because he desperately wanted it to be his. Foolish. He acknowledged the fear lurking in the pit of his belly. She was getting too close.
Distance. He needed distance. That worked best. Dunstan was innocent. Drogo knew that as well as he knew his own name. He would discover the truth of Dunstan’s problem, take care of it as best he could, then return to work as he should have done instead of giving in to his wife’s whimsy. Let her coddle plants and occupy herself as she would. He had business to take care of. With the appropriate distance, his life would suffer no disruption when the inevitable befell him.
Ninian looked up as her husband strode in like some iron automaton Ewen might have invented. With only a nod to her, Drogo grasped Dunstan’s elbow and hauled him from the chair. She needed to talk with him. She needed to explain…
Drogo shook her off when she tried to halt him. Looking as if he stood beneath a hangman’s noose, Dunstan straightened his shoulders and with only a cool nod in her direction, walked out of his own accord. Wordlessly, Drogo followed him, firmly shutting the door between them.
She didn’t need to read Drogo to read that action. She had just lost her husband as surely as if he’d packed up and left.
The iciness of the ghost’s presence did nothing to comfort her.
***
“Tell me what you said to him!” Ninian demanded. She couldn’t remember ever demanding anything of anyone at anytime, but she couldn’t bear Drogo’s return to the distant monster she’d first met in this damned castle. If it wasn’t akin to moving a mountain, she’d shake him.
“I will have a door and a lock installed at the bottom of those stairs if you don’t cease climbing them,” he answered coldly, not looking up from the mathematical calculations on his desk.
“Dunstan is dying inside. He’s killing himself! I can’t help that kind of pain. He needs you, Drogo. You have to help him. Tell me what you said.” How could she make him listen? What did she have to do to prove to him that she knew how Dunstan felt, knew what he was suffering?
“He was too drunk to talk sense. I’m handling it. You, madam, may go back to your plants and patients and leave me to deal with my family’s problems.”
He was doing it again, shutting her out, reducing her to the role of Wife and no more. She wouldn’t have it. He’d listened to her and brought her here and they’d grown closer than ever these past months. She wouldn’t let him deny that now.
“You, sir, are playing the obnoxious fool again, and I won’t stand for it!” With a sweep of her lace-bedecked sleeve, Ninian sent all the papers on his desk flying into the air. The cold contempt in his expression as he turned to her was worse than fury.
“I am not a helpless nitwit to be patronized and treated as your brood mare! We are equal partners in this marriage. Dunstan is now my brother as much as he is yours, and if you will not help him, I will!”
Drogo stood, and catching her flailing arms, lifted her from the floor and carried her out the door and down the stairs. “You, madam, are more trouble than all my brothers put together. If you do not stay off these stairs, I will lock you in your room.”
He deposited her, kicking and swinging, in the master suite, then stalked out, his granite face as immobile and inflexible as his mind.
Damn! If she were a real witch, she’d put a hex on him, turn him into a frog, and turn his damned tower into a lily pad where he could croak to himself all he liked. Stupid, stupid, stupid blind Ives men.
She hurled Ceridwen’s diary at the door.
***
“It’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t you be downstairs with the others, celebrating?”
Drogo adjusted the lens of his telescope and peered deeper into the night sky. “I don’t see you and Dunstan down there.”
“She has live hollies in the great hall. The whole town is bobbing for apples. She promised a flaming pudding and spiced cider. Lydie is playing the piano, and there will be dancing. Have you ever danced with Ninian?” Ewen balanced a compass between his fingers as he watched his eldest brother.
Drogo didn’t turn around. At the moment, he wasn’t even sleeping with Ninian. He’d left her to the suite and her haunts and returned to his old room. It was much saner this way, her with her pursuits, he with his. His theory on togetherness in marriage needed a few kinks worked out of it.
“I shouldn’t think dancing possible for her at this stage.”
“With Ninian, I expect anything is possible. Have you ever looked into that trumpery ritual her family performed at the wedding?”
Ewen asked that too casually for it not to be important. Grunting noncommittally, Drogo set aside his telescope to return to his desk and jot a few notes. According to his calculations, he should be able to see his planet again in a few weeks.
“They’re all cork-brained. Peculiarities develop in families bred too closely, and Malcolms were isolated out here for eons. The royal family ought to look into that close breeding business.” He made another note and checked an item off his list. Maybe that would satisfy Ewen sufficiently to return to the merrymaking.
“She gave Dunstan an amulet.”
Drogo dropped his quill and glared at his brother. “An amulet?”
Ewen shrugged. “And a small pouch of herbs to wear around his neck. Told him the amulet would help him gather his grief and anger so he could deposit them in the pouch, that he can’t be rational or make sense of anything until he rid himself of ill humors.”
Drogo rolled his eyes and picked up the quill again. “Maggoty-brained females. Do yourself a favor and stay away from the lot of them. What did Dunstan do with the claptrap?”
“He’s wearing them. He’s helping her roll rocks into the stream too. She said you didn’t have time to help her but had told her how to do it. Some kind of filter system?”
Drogo kneaded his forehead. He simply couldn’t do it all. There were not enough hours in the day or days in the week, and he wasn’t cut out for this nurturing, nest-building foolishness. He’d concentrated on investigating Celia’s death and answering questions about Dunstan’s whereabouts. He was almost grateful travel was nigh impossible this time of year. It prevented the magistrates from appearing at his door. The duke generously held them at bay while the servants swore Dunstan had never left home the day Celia died.
“I’ll have Payton hire someone to move the rocks. Dunstan will be fine once he realizes he’s wasting his grief on a tart like Celia. I have someone investigating the circumstances, and Mother has seen to the burial arrangements. There’s nothing else we can do for now.”
“Drogo, I don’t think you understand,” Ewen said a little more adamantly as his brother returned to his work.
Impatient, Drogo looked up again.
“Dunstan thinks she’s a witch.” Ewen set the compass down gently on the desk. “He believes that he must expiate his guilt before he can kill himself, and that Ninian is helping him to do that.”
Drogo’s thick brows formed into a thunderous cloud.
Ewen hurried on. “She’s told him he can’t die until you have an heir—besides me, at least. I am apparently unsuitable in the eyes of all. So Dunstan is attempting to work off his debt to you while waiting to see if you have a boy, which of course, we all know you will. Once that’s settled, he’s assuming Ninian will help him die without causing the rest of us too much distress.”
Merely Magic Page 29