The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief)

by Monajem, Barbara

  Oh, the pleasure of their joining, the throbbing of her core, the slight withdrawal of his member, making her moan, and then another, harder push, and he was deep in her, deep inside. They were one.

  For a long, long moment he didn’t move, gazing down at her, breathing hard, and she wondered if that was all there was to it. She didn’t feel complete; she writhed and panted beneath him, wanting more, even as he held absolutely still.

  He released a long sigh and began to move, pushing in, pulling out, drawing his member against her sweetest spot, and she heard her own wanton cries of delight and didn’t care, it was so good and so perfect and so right. She broke at last in a spasm of throbbing so strong she soared.

  With a harsh, rasping breath, he pulled out of her and spilled his seed onto her thigh.

  He collapsed next to her, cradling her in one arm, and kissed her hair again. They lay still, not speaking, their mingled breathing loud against the silence of the night.

  After a while he cleared his throat. “You were a virgin.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and realized why he’d said it. “I told you I didn’t have a lover.”

  “I didn’t believe you,” he said. “If I’d known...” He didn’t end his sentence.

  She didn’t need him to. “You wouldn’t have done this.”

  “No, of course not.” His voice was strained. “It wouldn’t have been right.” He sat up, running his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I should have known better, but everything will be fine. I’ll make sure of that.” He pulled up his breeches and buttoned them.

  The cold and damp of the meadow seeped into her, and she began to shiver. What did he mean?

  He reached to draw the bodice of her gown over her bosom again, but she pushed his hand away and did it herself. He stood, putting out a hand to help her up. She took it reluctantly and withdrew it as soon as she was on her feet.

  “Lucasta and I agreed that we would rupture the engagement early if either of us chose to do so,” he said. “We’ll make an announcement tomorrow morning, after which I shall be free to ask your father for your hand.”

  “No,” she said. “No, you mustn’t.” She whirled away from him toward the pathway into the wood, stumbled, caught up her skirts and headed for the house.

  He grabbed his coat and followed her. “Of course I must.”

  “No! You don’t love me. You don’t want to marry me.”

  “Yes, I do,” he said.

  * * *

  Astonishingly, he meant it. Thank God he’d been bored enough in London to agree to visit the Priory, or he might never have met her—finally, a woman with whom he wanted to spend his life. Strange, because he’d always imagined that the woman with the courage of her convictions who would also depend on him would share his own view of the world, but Peony certainly didn’t... And yet, it didn’t seem to matter. She was who she was, and he loved her. “I do want to marry you, Peony.”

  “No, you don’t.” She hastened away again. “It’s the magic talking.” She left the woods, crossed a strip of open land and well-nigh sprinted into the orchard. “It’s not real.” She tossed the words over her shoulder at him like noxious little gnats in the night. “I didn’t understand what would happen. I should have known better than to try such a fool’s trick, but I won’t let you be trapped by it.” She stumbled again, caught herself and hurried on. “I won’t get with child, so there’s no harm done.”

  “It’s not a matter of harm,” he said. “It’s a matter of doing what’s right, and that’s marriage.”

  She gave an audible shudder. “Oh, this is dreadful. Everything has gone from bad to worse, and—”

  She stopped so abruptly he almost bumped into her. “What—?”

  “Shh!” She put up a hand and whispered, “What is Lucasta doing out at this time of night?”

  Sure enough, his temporary fiancée was standing in the herb garden in the moonlight, muttering to herself. “I don’t know, but I’ll go talk to her right now.”

  “No!” Peony’s fingers dug into his shirtsleeves like desperate little claws, dragging him behind a pear tree. “Please don’t. Please don’t. I shan’t be able to bear it. I can’t marry you, and don’t you see? If you ask my father, they’ll never forgive me if I say no.”

  “Very well,” he said slowly. “I shan’t speak to your father.” For now.

  “And you won’t break off the engagement with Lucasta until she’s ready.”

  “Lucasta is ready whenever I am, and vice versa. That was our agreement.”

  “Perhaps, but if you break it off, it will make life difficult for her,” Peony hissed. “For no reason at all, because I cannot marry you.”

  “Why the devil not?”

  Her face puckered with such anguish that he couldn’t press her—but he damn well intended to find out what was going on. “Very well, I won’t break it off.” Yet.

  He watched Peony go into the herb garden. Once the women had disappeared together around the back of the house, he slipped in by the side door and quickly navigated the stairs and corridors, which didn’t seem convoluted to him. Soon he was knocking at the door of Lord Elderwood’s room. If anyone could sort out the so-called magical aspect of this tangle, it was he.

  Elderwood opened the door in his shirtsleeves, looking at first surprised and then wary. “What do you want?”

  “A few words,” Alexis said. “In private,” he added, when Elderwood didn’t invite him in. “Christ, David, do you have a woman in there? Can’t you keep your cock in your breeches for two nights in a row?”

  “Only when I choose to.” He looked uncharacteristically strained. “Alexis, I’m tired. We can talk later.”

  “This is important. It won’t take long, and you’re certain to be vastly interested.” He didn’t bother to stifle his irritation with his old friend. “It’s about magic.”

  “You wish to discuss magic?” Elderwood peered at Alexis as if he suspected he’d gone mad, and opened the door wide at last. “My dear fellow, what has come over you?”

  Alexis stalked into the room and glanced around, thankful to find no giggling housemaid in the bed. He’d thought that laughter in the wood had been Elderwood, but perhaps not. “Is there a custom—a folk custom, I suppose you’d say—where a woman rolls naked in a meadow?”

  “Rolling in the dew? Yes, on May Day morning, to call her true love to her side. Why do you ask?”

  Alexis pondered. The only person who had come to Peony’s side was...him.

  Something akin to consternation crossed Elderwood’s face. “Can it be...that you came upon a woman doing exactly that yesterday morning?”

  Alexis had fallen in love with Peony, and she wouldn’t have succumbed to his advances unless she felt the same way...so what had gone wrong?

  “You did!” Elderwood said, taking his silence for assent. “Do you mean to tell me who, or should I annoy you by guessing?” He paused, an uncharacteristic frown crinkling his brow. “Somehow, I can’t see Miss Barnes indulging in anything remotely connected with magic.”

  “Lucasta? No, of course not.”

  Elderwood laughed. “Then who was she? You may count on my discretion. I’m much better at keeping secrets than at controlling my wayward desires.”

  “This isn’t my secret to tell. I merely want to know how the custom works.”

  “Why not ask Miss Barnes?” The bitterness in his suggestion surprised Alexis; David Elderwood didn’t usually c
are about the opinions of others. “No need, however. I know what she’ll say—that it was an attempt to lure young men into the meadow. If one was caught, he had no choice but to marry the girl.”

  “Caught by whom?”

  “By the parents and villagers—the folk round about.”

  That didn’t apply, as there was no one to force the issue but Alexis and Miss Whistleby. “But you disagree.”

  “I’m sure in some instances it was exactly as Miss Barnes will tell you,” Elderwood said. “In other circumstances, though—if the woman truly believes in the custom, if the man is unknown and unexpected—magic might easily be at work. One never knows for sure.”

  Alexis sighed. “Is there a counter charm of sorts? A method of undoing the, er, magic?”

  “I doubt it,” Elderwood said. “Love is the most powerful magic in existence. Why would someone who called upon it want to counteract it?”

  “Many reasons,” Alexis said. “Disinclination, disappointment, nobility of character... I daresay there are others.”

  Elderwood shook his head. “Disinclination and disappointment simply wouldn’t arise, if love was at work.”

  “But nobility of character might. Or self-sacrifice,” Alexis said.

  “Perhaps,” Elderwood said, “if they are motivated by love. I suppose love might be able to counteract itself. It’s an interesting puzzle.”

  To hell with puzzles. Alexis strode over to the banked fire and stood with his back to it, warming his damp breeches. “But not, for example, by rolling in the meadow while clothed?”

  “Dear me,” Elderwood said. “Did she—whoever she was—try that? No, no, that’s far too crude. She’s probably stuck with whoever came as an answer to her prayer, particularly if they’ve met and spoken.” He paused, and his voice fluctuated strangely. “Gazed into one another’s eyes, shared a kiss—that sort of thing.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “That kind of magic, by what I’ve heard, is as powerful as a sacred vow.”

  Alexis said nothing.

  “Who’s the unfortunate fellow?” asked Elderwood, and his eyes widened. “Oh, my dear Alexis. No other man was there? I’m so sorry.”

  He didn’t look sorry. Alexis thought he seemed almost pleased—probably something to do with witnessing magic at work.

  Alexis didn’t believe it had anything to do with magic, although it did seem rather like a miracle. He’d never expected to find the right woman; no one remotely like her had been among the ones foisted on him by his mother, year after year. “I’m not unfortunate. I couldn’t be happier about this.” He merely had to figure out how to go about wooing Peony Whistleby. If he only understood why she was so determined to refuse him...

  Elderwood’s mouth twisted. “What about Miss Barnes?”

  “That was never a real engagement,” Alexis said. “She wanted to be left alone to write her tome, and I wasn’t inclined to marry any of the ninnies my mother kept shoving at me, so it was convenient for both of us... Oh, damn. That’s what I did wrong.”

  * * *

  If Lucasta hadn’t suddenly turned their way, staring into the orchard, Peony would have extracted more promises from Sir Alexis. “Stay here until Lucasta and I are indoors,” she whispered, “and don’t you dare discuss me with her.” She hurried out of the orchard, opening the gate and shutting it again with a clang.

  “I thought I heard voices,” Lucasta said. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Myself,” Peony said. “Just as you were doing.”

  “I always talk to myself,” Lucasta said. “You never do.”

  “How do you know? I do it when I’m alone, which I thought I was.”

  Peony couldn’t see her cousin clearly, even with the moon lighting up the garden, but she thought Lucasta’s nose curled. Did she smell of...of what she and Alexis had done? Or just of Alexis? She took a few hasty steps backward.

  Lucasta had already turned away. “Have you been rolling in the dew again?”

  “No, what would be the use of that? It’s the wrong night.”

  “And it didn’t even work on the right night.”

  Oh, it had worked—but with ghastly results. At first, Peony’d thought it hadn’t worked, and then that it had only affected her, but now she realized that wasn’t the case. Alexis was indeed her true love—but she wasn’t his. What Lucasta had said about naked young women trapping men into marriage made complete sense now.

  “So why were you out here?” Lucasta said.

  “I’ve decided I like it outdoors at night,” Peony said. Strange how an answer had come to her, just like that. “There’s nobody telling me what to do next or how to behave. It gives me a great sense of freedom.” Not only had she come up with a quick answer, but it was, unexpectedly, true.

  “Hmm,” Lucasta said, as if her mind was elsewhere. She held out several sprigs of rosemary. “Take these, would you?” She moved along the path and pinched off some fresh new mint leaves.

  Peony trailed behind her. “Why are you gathering herbs at this time of night?”

  “To rid myself of a headache,” Lucasta said. Peony considered asking why she didn’t use some of the dried herbs in the pantry—not that she particularly cared. That wasn’t what she really wanted to discuss. She glanced back and thought she saw Alexis’s still form by the orchard gate.

  “Come with me to the kitchen,” Lucasta said. “It would be a great help.”

  Still unsure how to phrase her question for Lucasta, she followed her willingly indoors and hovered while her cousin boiled water and prepared not one, but two tisanes.

  “What is the other one for?”

  “Woman’s troubles,” Lucasta said, unusually curt. “Sorry I’m so grumpy. I’ll be better once I’ve slept.”

  Peony carried the candle and led the way upstairs, opening the bedchamber door for her. Lucasta set the tray with the tisanes on a table just inside the door and turned to say good-night.

  “Wait,” Peony said. “Lucasta, are you—are you ever going to marry Sir Alexis?”

  After a long moment of silence, her cousin said, “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve been wondering why you keep postponing it,” Peony said. “If he’s such a kind and thoughtful man, he wouldn’t prevent you from writing your folklore book even after you were married...would he?”

  “Probably not,” she said. “But you never know what a man will do once he has the upper hand.” Why did she sound so bitter?

  “When I saw you together, I found it hard to believe that you love him that...that way,” Peony said.

  Lucasta gave hard little laugh. “That’s why I’ve never asked him here. It was easy to remain properly formal in London, but here someone was sure to realize. He’s a dear friend, but marry him—no. I shall never marry. I’ll be happier that way.”

  Peony wasn’t sure she believed that, either, and come to think of it, hadn’t Lucasta’s woman’s troubles been only a week ago?

  “Are you worried about how he will feel?” said Lucasta. “You needn’t be. Alexis is just like me; he doesn’t want to marry. Our engagement is an arrangement for our mutual convenience, to keep matchmaking busybodies at bay.”

  Knowing for sure that she’d done the right thing didn’t make it any easier for Peony. She escaped to her room and indulged in a hearty bout of tears.

  * * *

  Alexis woke with a start. Either the wind had risen considerably, or one of Miss Whistleby’s ghosts, boggarts or bogeys was h
aving a restless night. More likely one of the latter, he thought, listening to the rhythmic tapping of the ivy outside his window.

  He groaned and turned over. Yesterday, such a ridiculous thought would never have entered his mind.

  It is wiser to err on the side of belief.

  Whatever Elderwood pronounced, Alexis wasn’t likely to start believing in magic, but...Peony Whistleby, he realized suddenly, was in grave danger of not believing. Not about ghosts and boggarts and such—it was easy enough to believe in that sort of thing because it didn’t involve any sort of action—but about herself. Surely she must know that many men who were in no hurry to marry eventually settled down. Perhaps it had never occurred to her that one such man might settle down with her. Just because Alexis wasn’t thinking of marriage a few days ago didn’t mean he hadn’t come round to the idea now.

  No, she had such a low opinion of herself that even after performing a folk rite and experiencing what must, to her, be astonishing results, she still didn’t believe the magic had worked.

  Alexis hatched a plan.

  * * *

  Peony wanted to do it again.

  She stood at her bedchamber window early the next morning—a little way back so she wouldn’t be visible—and watched Sir Alexis and Lucasta in the knot garden. Lucasta was doing most of the talking, her gestures wild with emotion, while Alexis paced calmly beside her, hands behind his back, nodding and offering a word or two from time to time. Peony loved everything about him, from his hair to his eyes and mouth, to his hands and his beating heart and the powerful thighs in his pantaloons, and the member that had pushed inside her last night and given her such pleasure.

  She wanted him again. And she was sure to want him again after that.

  She mustn’t. It wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t the magic let her be?

  She crept closer to the window, drinking in the sight of Alexis’s calm, competent figure. Had he spoken to Lucasta in spite of promising he wouldn’t? Peony couldn’t really blame him if he had; he believed himself in love, so of course he would feel it necessary to act.