Again the Magic

by Lisa Kleypas

  “What about you and McKenna? Is there any reason to hope for the both of you?” As Livia saw Aline’s expression, she frowned. “Never mind—I shouldn’t have asked. I have promised myself to say nothing more on the subject, and from now on I will hold my silence even if it kills me…”

  Aline’s thoughts were brought back to the present as she stepped outside and noticed that one of the footmen, Peter, was having difficulty hefting a massive trunk onto the back of a carriage. Despite his brawny build, the weight of the brass-bound trunk was getting the better of him. The object slid from its precarious position, threatening to topple Peter backward.

  Two of the guests, Mr. Cuyler and Mr. Chamberlain, noticed the footman’s dilemma, but it did not seem to occur to either of them to offer assistance. They moved away from the vehicle in tandem, continuing their conversation while they observed Peter’s struggles. Aline glanced quickly around the scene, looking for another servant to help the footman. Before she could say a word to anyone, McKenna seemed to appear from nowhere, striding to the back of the carriage and wedging his shoulder against the trunk. The muscles of his arms and back bulged against the seams of his coat as he shoved the trunk into its proper place, holding it steady while Peter clambered up to fasten a leather strap around it.

  Cuyler and Chamberlain turned away from the sight, as if it embarrassed them to see one of their group assisting a servant with a menial task. The very fact of McKenna’s superior physical strength seemed a mark against him, betraying that he had once labored at tasks that no gentleman should ever have done. Finally the trunk was secured, and McKenna stepped back, acknowledging the footman’s thanks with a brief nod. Watching him, Aline could not help but reflect that had McKenna never left Stony Cross, he almost certainly would have been in Peter’s place, serving as a footman. And that wouldn’t have mattered to her in the least. She would have loved him no matter where he went, or what he did, and it tormented her that he would never know that.

  Sensing her gaze, McKenna glanced up, then immediately averted his gaze. His jaw hardened, and he stood there in silent contemplation before finally looking at her once more. His expression sent a chill through her…so wintry and withdrawn…and she realized that his feelings for her were transforming into a hostility that was proportionate to how much he loved her.

  He was going to hate her soon, she thought bleakly, if he didn’t already.

  McKenna squared his shoulders and came to her, stopping an arm’s reach away. They stood together in brittle silence, while small clusters of people chatted and shifted around them. One of the most difficult things Aline had ever done in her life was to lift her chin and stare into his eyes. The exotic blue-green irises were nearly obliterated by the dark black of his pupils. He looked pale beneath his healthy tan, and his usual vitality had been crushed beneath an air of absolute grimness.

  Aline lowered her gaze. “I wish you well, McKenna,” she finally whispered.

  He was very still. “I wish the same for you.”

  More silence, pressing down on her until she nearly swayed beneath its weight. “I hope you will have a safe and pleasant crossing.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clumsily Aline offered her hand to him. McKenna didn’t move to take it. She felt her fingers tremble. Just as she began to withdraw her hand, he caught it and brought her fingers to his lips. The touch of his mouth was cool and dry against her skin. “Goodbye,” he murmured.

  Aline’s throat closed, and she stood silent and shivering, her hand suspended in the air after he released it. Closing her fingers slowly, she brought her fist against her midriff and turned away blindly. She felt his gaze on her as she left. As she began to ascend the short flight of steps that led to the entrance hall, the thick scar tissue pulled at the back of her knee, a persistent, annoying burn that brought tears of rage to her eyes.

  Nineteen

  After the last guest had departed, Aline changed into a comfortable at-home gown and went to the family receiving room. Curling up in the corner of a deeply upholstered settee, she sat and stared at nothing for what seemed to be hours. Despite the warmth of the day, she shivered beneath a lap blanket, her fingers and toes icy. At her request, a maid came to light a fire in the hearth and brought a steaming pot of tea, but nothing could take the chill away.

  She heard the sounds of rooms being cleaned; servants’ footsteps on the stairs, the manor being restored to order now that the house was finally cleared of visitors. There were things that she should be doing; taking household inventory, consulting with Mrs. Faircloth about which rooms should be closed and what items were needed from market. However, Aline could not seem to rouse herself from the stupor that had settled over her. She felt like a clock with a damaged mechanism, frozen and useless.

  She dozed on the settee until the fire burned low and the shafts of sunlight that came through the half-closed curtains were replaced by the glow of sunset. A quiet sound awakened her, and she stirred reluctantly. Opening her bleary eyes, she saw that Marcus had come into the room. He stood near the hearth, staring at her as if she were a puzzle that he was uncertain how to solve.

  “What do you want?” she asked with a frown. Struggling to a sitting position, she rubbed her eyes.

  Marcus lit a lamp and approached the settee. “Mrs. Faircloth tells me that you haven’t eaten all day.”

  Aline shook her head. “I’m just tired. I’ll have something later.”

  Her brother stood over her with a frown. “You look like hell.”

  “Thank you,” she said dryly. “As I said, I am tired. I need to sleep, that is all—”

  “You seem to have slept most of the day—and it hasn’t done you a damned bit of good.”

  “What do you want, Marcus?” she asked with a spark of annoyance.

  He took his time about answering, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he appeared to be thinking something over. Eventually he glanced at the shape of her knees, hidden beneath the folds of her blue muslin skirts. “I’ve come to ask something of you,” he said gruffly.

  “What?”

  He gestured stiffly toward her feet. “May I see them?”

  Aline gave him a blank stare. “My legs?”

  “Yes.” Marcus sat on the other side of the settee, his face expressionless.

  He had never made such a request before. Why would he want to see her legs now, after all these years? Aline could not fathom his motive, and she felt too exhausted to sort through the many tiers of emotion she felt. Certainly it would do no harm to show him, she thought. Before she allowed herself to think twice, she kicked off her slippers. Her legs were bare beneath the gown. Lifting them to the settee cushions, she hesitated before tugging the hem of her skirts and drawers up to her knees.

  Other than a nearly undetectable hitch to his breathing, Marcus showed no reaction to the sight of her legs. His dark gaze moved over the ropy pattern of scars, the patches of rough, ravaged skin, down to the incongruous whiteness of her feet. Watching his impassive face, Aline didn’t realize that she was holding her breath, until she felt the taut burn of her lungs. She let out a slow sigh, rather amazed that she was able to trust Marcus to this extent.

  “They’re not pretty,” he finally said. “But they’re not quite as bad as I expected.” Carefully he reached over to pull the skirt back over her legs. “I suppose things that are unseen are often worse in one’s imagination than they are in reality.”

  Aline stared curiously at the overprotective, strongwilled, often annoying brother she had come to love so dearly. As children, they had been little more than strangers to each other, but in the years since their father’s death, Marcus had proved himself to be an honorable and caring man. Like her, he was independent to a fault, outwardly social and yet fiercely private. Unlike her, he was always scrupulously honest, even when the truth was painful.

  “Why did you want to see them now?” she asked.

  He surprised her with a self-derisive smile. “I’ve n
ever been certain how to contend with your accident, other than wish to hell that it had never happened. I can’t help but feel that I failed you in some way. Seeing your legs, and knowing there is nothing I can do to make them better, is damned difficult for me.”

  She shook her head in bafflement. “Good Lord, Marcus, how on earth could you have prevented an accident from happening? That’s taking your sense of responsibility rather too far, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve chosen to love very few people in this world,” he murmured, “but you and Livia are among them—and I would give my life to spare either of you a single moment’s pain.”

  Aline smiled at him, feeling a welcome crack in the numbness that surrounded her. Despite all better judgment, she couldn’t prevent herself from asking a critical question, even as she struggled to crush the feeble stirring of hope within herself. “Marcus,” she asked hesitantly, “if you loved a woman, would scars like this stop you from—”

  “No,” he interrupted firmly. “No, I wouldn’t let them stop me.”

  Aline wondered if it was really true. It was possible that once again he was trying to protect her, by sparing her feelings. But Marcus was not a man to lie out of kindness.

  “Don’t you believe me?” he asked.

  She looked at him uncertainly. “I want to.”

  “You are wrong to assume that I insist upon perfection in a woman. I enjoy physical beauty like any other man, but it’s hardly a requirement. That would be hypocritical, coming from a man who is far from handsome himself.”

  Aline paused in surprise, regarding his broad, even features, his strong jaw, the shrewd black eyes set beneath the straight lines of his brows. “You are attractive,” she said earnestly. “Perhaps not in the way that someone like Mr. Shaw is…but few men are.”

  Her brother shrugged. “Believe me, it doesn’t matter, since I’ve never found my looks—or lack thereof—to be an impediment in any way. Which has given me a very balanced perspective on the subject of physical beauty—a perspective that someone with your looks rarely attains.”

  Aline frowned, wondering if she was being criticized.

  “It must be extraordinarily difficult,” Marcus continued, “for a woman as beautiful as you to feel that there is a part of you that is shameful and must be concealed. You’ve never made peace with it, have you?”

  Leaning her head against the side of the settee, Aline shook her head. “I hate these scars. I’ll never stop wishing that I didn’t have them. And there’s nothing I can do to change them.”

  “Just as McKenna can never change his origins.”

  “If you’re trying to draw a parallel, Marcus, it won’t do any good. McKenna’s origins have never mattered to me. There is nothing that would make me stop loving him or wanting him—” She stopped abruptly as she understood the point he had been leading to.

  “Don’t you think he would feel the same way about your legs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For God’s sake, go tell him the truth. This isn’t the time for you to let your pride get the better of you.”

  His words kindled sudden outrage. “This has nothing to do with pride!”

  “Oh?” Marcus gave her a sardonic look. “You can’t bear to let McKenna know that you’re less than perfect. What is that if not pride?”

  “It’s not that simple,” she protested.

  His mouth twisted impatiently. “Perhaps the problem isn’t simple—but the solution is. Start behaving like the mature woman you are, and acknowledge the fact that you have flaws. And give the poor devil a chance to prove that he can love you regardless.”

  “You insufferable know-all,” she choked, yearning to slap him.

  Marcus smiled grimly. “Go to him, Aline. Or I promise you that I’ll go tell him myself.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “I’ve already had a carriage readied,” he informed her. “I’m leaving for London in five minutes, with or without you.”

  “For God’s sake,” she exploded, “don’t you ever get tired of telling everyone else what to do?”

  “Actually, no.”

  Aline was torn between laughter and exasperation at his reply. “Until today you’ve done your best to discourage my relationship with McKenna. Why have you changed your mind now?”

  “Because you’re thirty-one and unmarried, and I’ve realized that this may be my only opportunity to be rid of you.” Marcus grinned and ducked to avoid the halfhearted swipe of her fist, then reached out to fold her tightly in his arms. “And because I want you to be happy,” he murmured against her hair.

  Pressing her face against his shoulder, Aline felt tears well in her eyes.

  “I feared that McKenna was going to hurt you,” Marcus continued. “I believe that was his intent in the beginning. But he couldn’t carry out his plans, after all was said and done. Even thinking that you had betrayed him, he couldn’t help but love you. When he left today, he looked somehow…diminished. And I finally realized that he had always been in far more danger from you than you ever were from him. I actually pitied the bastard, because every man has a mortal terror of being hurt that way.” Marcus fumbled for a handkerchief. “Here, take this before you ruin my coat.”

  Blowing her nose gustily, Aline pulled away from him. She felt horribly vulnerable, as if he were prodding her to jump off a cliff. “Remember when you once told me that you didn’t like to take risks? Well, I don’t either.”

  “As I recall, I said unnecessary risks,” he replied gently. “But this seems to be a necessary one, doesn’t it?”

  Aline stared at him without blinking. Try as she might, she was unable to disavow the overwhelming need that would rule the rest of her life, no matter what she chose to do now. Nothing would end when McKenna left England. She would find no more peace in the future than she had during the past twelve years. The realization made her feel sick, scared, and yet oddly elated. A necessary risk…

  “I’ll go to London,” she said, her voice shaking only a little. “I’ll only need a few minutes to change into my traveling clothes.”

  “No time for that.”

  “But I’m not dressed to go out in public—”

  “As it is, we may not reach the steamer before it departs.”

  Galvanized by the words, Aline jammed her feet into her discarded slippers. “Marcus, you have to get me there in time!”

  Despite Marcus’s advice that she should try to sleep during the journey to London, Aline was awake for most of the night. Her insides seemed to knot and twist as she stared through the darkened interior of the carriage, wondering if she was going to reach McKenna before his ship, the Britannia, left for America. From time to time the silence was broken by the rasp of her brother’s snore as he dozed on the opposite seat.

  Sometime before dawn, exhaustion overcame her. She fell asleep sitting up, with her cheek crushed against the velvet curtain that draped the interior wall. Floating in a dreamless void, she awakened with difficulty as she felt Marcus’s hand on her shoulder.

  “What…?” she mumbled, blinking and groaning as he shook her lightly.

  “Open your eyes. We’re at the docks.”

  Aline sat up clumsily as Marcus rapped on the carriage door. The footman, Peter, who looked somewhat the worse for wear himself, opened the portal from outside. Immediately a curious mixture of odors filled the carriage. It was a malty, fishy smell, heavily tainted with coal and tobacco. The screeching of seagulls mingled with human voices…there were cries of “Rowse-in, and bend the cable,” and “Break bulk,” and other equally incomprehensible phrases. Marcus swung out of the carriage, and Aline pushed back a straggling lock of hair as she leaned forward to watch him.

  The scene at the docks was a swarm of activity, with an endless forest of masts extending on both sides of the channel. There were coal barges, steamboats, and too many merchantmen to count. Crowds of burly, sweat-soaked dockers used hand-held hooks to move bales, boxes, barrels, and parcels of every
kind to the nearby warehouses. A row of towering iron cranes were in constant motion, each long metal arm operated by a pair of men as they discharged cargo from the hold of a ship to the quay. It was brutal work, not to mention dangerous. She could hardly believe that McKenna had once earned his living this way.

  On the far end of the dock, a kiln next to the warehouses was being used to burn off the damaged tobacco, its long chimney sending a thick stream of blue smoke into the sky.

  “They call that the queen’s pipe,” Marcus said dryly, following the direction of her gaze.

  Staring along the row of warehouses to the other end of the quay, Aline saw a massive wooden paddle steamer, easily over two hundred feet in length. “Is that the Britannia?”

  Marcus nodded. “I’ll go find a clerk to fetch McKenna from the ship.”

  Aline closed her eyes tightly, trying to picture McKenna’s face as he received the news. In his current disposition, he wasn’t likely to take it well. “Perhaps I should go aboard,” she suggested.

  “No,” came her brother’s immediate reply. “They’re going to weigh anchor soon—I’m not going to take the chance of having you sail off across the Atlantic as an accidental passenger.”

  “I’ll cause McKenna to miss his departure,” she said. “And then he’ll kill me.”

  Marcus gave an impatient snort. “The ship is likely to launch while I stand here arguing with you. Do you want to talk to McKenna or not?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then stay in the carriage. Peter and the driver will look after you. I’ll be back soon.”

  “He may refuse to disembark,” she said. “I hurt him very badly, Marcus.”

  “He’ll come,” her brother replied with calm conviction. “One way or another.”

  A hesitant smile worked its way past Aline’s distress as she watched Marcus stride away, prepared to do physical battle, if necessary, with an adversary who was nearly a head taller than he.

  Settling back in the carriage, Aline pushed the curtain open and stared through the window, watching a marine policeman wander back and forth past rows of valuable sugar hogsheads piled six and eight high. As she waited, it occurred to her that she must look as if she had been pulled backward through a hedge, with her clothes rumpled and her hair a disheveled mess. She wasn’t even wearing proper shoes. Hardly the image of a fine lady visiting town, she thought ruefully, regarding her toes as she wiggled them inside the knit slippers.