One Touch of Magic

by Amanda McCabe

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Sarah!” Mary Ann ran out of the hunting box before Sarah could even step down from the carriage. The kittens chased after her, batting at her skirt hem with their paws. “Where have you been? What is happening? I received a note from Mr. Hamilton saying I should stay at home today, but there was no explanation.” Her glance flickered over to the footmen, both of whom had short swords, and one with a rifle over his saddle. “Something terrible has happened.”

  Sarah took her arm and turned her back to the house, leading her along the walkway she had just run down. “Come inside, dear, and I will tell you all about it. I am sorry I was gone so long; I went to Ransome Hall, then to the inn to see Mrs. Hamilton for a moment.”

  Mary Ann’s brow creased. “Is there something wrong with Lord Ransome? Or Mrs. Hamilton?”

  Sarah remembered the strange call she had just paid on Mrs. Hamilton, dazed from her time with Miles, and was not sure what to say. Mrs. Hamilton had not looked well at all, and had still been clad in her dressing gown when it was past time for luncheon. She had not appeared to understand what Sarah was saying to her. But Sarah just explained the situation as completely as she could (which was not very), and sent her back to her bed with a tisane.

  She longed for her own bed now, after all the shocks of the day. That would have to wait, though; right now, she had to talk to Mary Ann. Once settled in the drawing room, she explained the situation yet again. If she had to say the words “artifacts destroyed” and “that man killed” again, she would surely scream.

  Mary Ann shook her head, her face bewildered. “How could all this be? What is happening here, Sarah?”

  “I am not sure. But you are quite safe, my dear, I assure you. Lord Ransome, Mr. Hamilton, and myself are doing all we can to find out who has done this.” Sarah tried to assure herself as much as she did Mary Ann. “But you promise me you will only go about with me, and that you will stay safely here the rest of the time.”

  “I am not completely bacon brained, Sarah!” Mary Ann protested. “I have no desire to be killed. I only wish I could be of some assistance.”

  “You are of assistance to me just by being here. I would so hate to be all alone right now.” Sarah hugged her sister close, deeply grateful that Mary Ann was here, safe and whole. “Come, now, it is late, and I have not yet eaten. Let’s find something to eat, and then perhaps you could help me sort out the remaining artifacts and start to relabel them.”

  Mary Ann nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes! I’ve been learning so much lately that I am sure I could do that. Tell me about the objects you found, Sarah. Is my drinking horn among them?”

  Sarah nodded, and led the way toward the kitchen, glad to think and speak of something positive. All of their work was not lost, and relabeling would occupy her mind far more agreeably than the doubts and fears of the morning had.

  As for the future—well, she would have to face that soon enough. At this moment, she had work to do, and that would be enough.

  “What have you discovered?” Miles asked Mr. Hamilton, whom he had finally found at the home of the magistrate, Sir Walter Farnham, in Upper Hawton. They walked along the main street now, in the direction of where their horses were being watched.

  Miles thought the other man looked tired and strained, and seemed years older in only one morning. His smirks and rudeness were vanished. Miles couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him.

  “Sir Walter says that farmer—whose name, by the way, was Mr. White—was feuding with a neighbor of his over a property boundary. In fact, Mr. White was apparently feuding with a great many people over a great many things. Sir Walter says he is not at all surprised that he came to a bad end. I do not think he will exert himself too greatly to find the culprit.” Mr. Hamilton laughed dryly. “So I do not imagine that Sir Walter will look too closely at your own unfortunate encounter with the man, Lord Ransome.”

  “That is not what I was concerned about.” Miles stopped on the walkway, and turned to face Mr. Hamilton. “What does Sir Walter say of the vandalism of Lady Iverson’s artifacts?”

  Mr. Hamilton’s chuckles died away, leaving him sad and pale again. It was obvious what he considered the true crime; what Miles was ashamed to admit he himself was more concerned about: the vicious destruction of the Viking items.

  “I would not say they were exclusively Lady Iverson’s artifacts,” Mr. Hamilton answered. “But Sir Walter believes it was the work of Mr. White, who then coincidentally, and deservedly, met his own end. Sir Walter knew of Mr. White’s—meeting with you, and judges the vandalism to be an act of revenge.”

  “And what do you think? Do you believe this to be the case?”

  Mr. Hamilton shrugged. “I cannot imagine who else it could be.”

  “It does not strike you as being a great coincidence, that this Mr. White would destroy valuable antiquities, and then go home to immediately be murdered?”

  “Are you saying that you do not believe that is what happened, Lord Ransome?”

  Miles was not sure what he thought. This whole situation was becoming ugly beyond belief, and he just wanted to save Sarah from any more suffering.

  He wanted nothing but happiness and light to fill all her days. And he would do anything, find any villain, to do that.

  “Was there not some trouble before?” he asked. “A cave-in of the cellar at the leather-worker’s shop? Some missing tools?”

  “Those were simply accidents!”

  “Were they, indeed?”

  “Of course. We did not even know of this Mr. White then—no one at our site ever saw him before the day he attacked Miss Bellweather. I never saw him until I discovered his dead body. Why would he have caused those mishaps weeks ago?”

  “What if it was not Mr. White?”

  Mr. Hamilton shook his head. “Who else could it have been?”

  “That is what I am trying to discover.” Miles turned back around, and continued along the street to reclaim his horse from the urchin who held the reins. He swung up into the saddle and looked down at Mr. Hamilton, who merely stood still beside his own horse, staring blankly off as if trying to comprehend the whole situation. “Are you going to come with me, Mr. Hamilton?”

  The man blinked up at him. “Where are you going, Lord Ransome?”

  “I am going to speak with those neighbors Mr. White was feuding with. After that . . .” After that—Miles did not know. “I will see what I find.”

  “I must look in on my wife. I asked Lady Iverson to give her a message earlier, but she has been alone all day, and she is not well.” Mr. Hamilton grasped the reins of his horse. “Then I will be happy to lend any assistance I can.”

  Miles wasn’t sure what use Mr. Hamilton could really be, but he just nodded, and said, “I will call on you later, then.”

  He turned his horse away, and galloped out of the village on his errand. A fool’s errand, he feared, but he had to do something, anything. No man could possibly sit idly by while the woman he cared about, the woman he loved, was in trouble.

  Miles almost fell off his horse in shock at his own thoughts.

  Love? He loved Sarah?

  Miles reined his horse in beneath a tree and just sat there for a moment, letting the newness of his emotions settle on his mind. Yes, he confessed to himself. He did love her. Their kiss had proved that to him, beyond a doubt. Their surprising kiss that had seemingly come from nowhere to offer passion and comfort in the midst of ugliness. The feeling of her in his arms, of her lips beneath his, had been sweeter than anything he had ever known, ever dreamed of.

  The way she laughed and smiled, the serious frown on her face as she concentrated on her work; he could watch her in all her moods, all her ways, and never tire of it. Of her. It was all unbearably precious to him.

  When he was in Spain, when things were difficult and he was far from certain about the future, he would sit under the stars in the hot, dry night and try to envision a different life in England. A life where he would
have a home and a family, a wife who was gentle and soft, who smelled of roses and had a musical laugh.

  Those thoughts had been precious, especially when he feared that none of them would ever have the chance to come true. But they had been dreams; the reality of Sarah, of his unique Sarah, was more fine than any dream could ever be.

  Even in the middle of this terrible mess they found themselves in, the realization of his love made him smile, made him laugh aloud. Never would he have thought to be given such a glorious gift!

  He loved her. He loved her! If there had been anyone near, he would have shouted the news at them. The only living creature near to him, though, was a placid cow, who chewed at a mouthful of grass and watched him calmly.

  “I am in love with Sarah Iverson,” he told the cow.

  The creature just turned around and loped back across its meadow.

  Miles tugged at his horse’s reins and continued down the lane at a slower pace. Yes, he loved her; but did she love him?

  The ardor of her kiss would certainly suggest so. She had held him so tightly, had melted into him with soft sighs.

  But their situation was far from mundane. They were surrounded by danger, by a palpable malevolence, and she may have just been reaching out for his comfort. He himself had done such, with Spanish widows and pretty courtesans. Sometimes a person needed the safety, the reality of another person. Sarah had been so unhappy with him before, when he told her of his new plans for the land her village sat on. Perhaps, once this was all past, she would be angry with him again.

  He hoped that was not true. He wanted, desperately wanted, her to feel tenderness and perhaps even love for him. If she did, he could never ask for a greater gift.

  Only time would tell.

  “Emmeline?” Neville Hamilton knocked at his wife’s chamber door. It was silent behind the thin wood, but surely it was far too early in the day for her to be asleep. It was scarcely teatime.

  Then again, he was never sure what to expect from her anymore.

  He knew that she had not been happy for a long time, maybe not since their wedding day. He had his own unhappiness, though, his own disillusionment. He had his work. That did not leave a great deal of time for a wife who was in so many ways a stranger to him.

  A stranger whose laugher and gaiety, the qualities that had once drawn him to her, had been growing ever more desperate of late.

  She was not what he had sought in a wife at all. She could not help him in his work, could not even understand him. Just as he did not understand her.

  That thought renewed all his old anger at the unfairness of fortune, and gave strength to his knock at her door. “Emmeline! I know that you have not gone out. The innkeeper says they have not seen you downstairs all day. Now, let me in, at once!”

  A moment passed. Then there was a faint shuffling noise, and the grate of a key being turned in the lock. The door swung open, and Emmeline stood there.

  She was still clad in her dressing gown, her hair falling over her shoulders in a tangled tumble, her eyes red rimmed from sleep. Or tears?

  “What do you want, Neville?” she asked dully.

  Despite his already low expectations, Neville was shocked. Emmeline always slept late, but when she awoke, she attended her toilette and dressed carefully, as if still in Bath. Their quarrel over supper last night had not been an unusual one—Neville could not even recall what it had been about. It was certainly not something to cause this.

  He pushed past her into the chamber, and saw the unmade bed, the untouched luncheon tray, and a glass of some milky liquid on the bedside table. He turned back to face her, watching as she closed the door and sat down on the nearest chair, moving as if she was too tired to stand any longer.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  “I am just tired,” she said. “And you needn’t pretend you care.”

  “Of course, I care. You are my wife.”

  She laughed, and waved her hand in a listless, dismissive gesture. “And you are my husband. Yet where were you this morning, when, from what I hear, there was a murderer abroad? You were chasing about the countryside, leaving me here alone and unprotected.”

  Neville raked his hands through his hair in a burst of impatience. “Emmeline! You were hardly unprotected in an inn full of people. I was attempting to find out who has done this, so that we will all be safe again.”

  “This would never have happened to us at home in Bath! We are always safe there.” She burst into great, gulping sobs, and buried her face in her hands. “I hate it here! I hate everything about it. And then for you to leave me alone . . .”

  Neville awkwardly put his arm around her and patted her shoulder. He had never been good with weeping females. “Emmeline, please. Did Lady Iverson not bring my message to you?”

  Emmeline nodded, but still cried. “She does not understand how I feel, either. She is an unnatural female, who would rather dig about in the dirt than marry and go out in proper society. If I had the things that she has, a title and money of my own, I would never waste them as she does.”

  Neville feared that this sort of vituperative outburst could go on for hours, and he remembered his pledge to assist Lord Ransome. He tightened his arm around her, and said, “Come, my dear. Let me help you back to the bed. You are obviously not well.”

  She went with him willingly enough, letting him tuck the bedclothes around her, but she said, “You are just going to leave me again. To go to Lady Iverson and her ridiculous sister.”

  “I told Lord Ransome I would join him in the search for the culprit,” he said. “I must go again, but only for a brief while.”

  Emmeline sniffled, and looked up with a glimmer of interest. “Lord Ransome?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I not go with you?” she asked plaintively. “If I could just leave these rooms for a while . . .”

  Neville would never have allowed his wife to ride about the countryside with him, even under the best of circumstances. It was out of the question now, especially in light of her current state of mind. But he dared not completely refuse her, for fear she would take to weeping again. “You must rest right now Emmeline. But perhaps this evening I could take you to visit Lady Iverson for a while.”

  Emmeline nodded weakly, and laid her head back down on the pillow, closing her eyes. Her golden lashes lay in pale relief against the purple shadows lurking there.

  Neville stared down at her, remembering Lord Ransome’s suspicions that it had not been the brutish farmer who destroyed the Viking artifacts. Obviously, though, it had to have been someone who was desperate and angry about something, something to do with the village or the people who worked there.

  Desperate—and angry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “How does this look, Sarah?” Mary Ann asked.

  “Hm?” Sarah glanced up, startled by the sound of her sister’s voice. She had been looking at a pottery storage jar for several minutes, but, in truth, her thoughts had not been on it. She forgot all about her task, all that had happened that day, and thought of only one thing—her kiss with Miles.

  Over and over, her mind saw how he looked in his library, his guinea-gold hair tousled, his eyes heavy and intent. Her hands remembered his warmth, the feel of his strong shoulders. Her lips wanted to feel his beneath them again.

  Her cheeks grew warm just with the memory, and she pressed her hand to her face. Never would she have thought that she could become a lust-starved widow, but apparently that was what had happened! Nothing, not even the seriousness of their situation, could turn her from that kiss.

  She had even forgotten that she was not alone in the drawing room. Mary Ann sat on the floor, next to an old blanket spread out and covered with objects. When Sarah turned to look at her, she saw that her sister had a book open on her lap and held an ivory figure of a warrior in one hand. With her other hand, she gave him a last wipe with a rag.

  “I am sorry, Mary Ann. Did you say something?” Sarah asked.

>   “I asked if this looks all right. I’m afraid he lost part of his spear, but other than that he seems in fine shape. I finished cleaning this bowl, too.” She polished at the little ivory face. “They are ready to be labeled. Have you finished with that jar?”

  “Jar?” Sarah stared dumbly at the piece of pottery before her. “Oh. No. Not yet.”

  “Poor Sarah. You look so tired.”

  “I am tired, I fear.”

  “Why do you not retire?” Mary Ann rose stiffly to her feet, and crossed the room to pull the draperies back from the window. “See, it is full dark outside. You should be in bed.”

  Sarah was startled that it had grown so very late. When she first arrived back at the hunting box, time had seemed to pass very slowly as she waited impatiently for news. Then she had become engrossed in her work, and in lustful, ridiculous daydreams, and it had slipped away from her.

  Darkness had fallen—and she had not yet had any news from Miles.

  “No,” she said. “I cannot retire yet.”

  “Not until you hear something. I know. I, too, am anxious.” Mary Ann leaned against the window frame, her smooth dark hair limned in moonlight. “Do you suppose Mr. O’Riley is searching with Lord Ransome?”

  Sarah did not miss the wistful note in her sister’s voice, and knew that it boded ill for a new infatuation. She was too tired, though, and too nervous to speak to her about it now. When everything was resolved, she and Mary Ann would have to have yet another talk about the differences between Minerva Press novels and real life.

  For now, all she said was, “I would suppose so. As is Mr. Hamilton.”

  Mary Ann wrinkled her nose. “Mr. Hamilton is probably at the inn, nursing his ninny of a wife.”

  “Mary Ann, that is unkind,” Sarah protested. “She has had a very unhappy time adjusting to her marriage.”

  “Is marriage always such an unhappy adjustment?” Mary Ann asked, her tone full of curiosity. “I have often wondered. Mother just purses up her lips, and says a wife must always do her duty. She is of no help at all.”