He clenched his jaw and prayed that he had not.
Only idlers and travelers occupied the tables as he entered the inn. Dunstan accepted a tankard, nodded at the local butcher, and took a bench near the fire to wait.
“I say, you look familiar.” A traveler in a silk coat pinned back at the tail for riding, and fashionable new spatterdashes to cover his stockings, spoke up from a booth in the corner. “Have we met?”
The speaker was evidently a London macaroni, and Dunstan made it a habit to avoid the city and its jaded residents. He sipped his ale before replying, “I doubt it.”
“I’m Handel.” The fop carried his tankard over to the settle. “I’d recognize an Ives anywhere,” he said, taking a seat. “Those black looks and that long nose give you away. Inventive, the lot of you, I understand.”
Dunstan shrugged. If this was the man Drogo had recommended, then his brother had made a rare mistake in judgment.
“I say, you aren’t here to court the widow, are you? Not fair at all, I assure you. Drogo’s claimed one fair Malcolm. There’s no need for Ives to take them all.”
“There are dozens of them,” Dunstan informed him dryly. “The countryside is littered with golden-haired witches. There’s scarcely enough of us to take them all.”
The fop chortled. “It’s the fair-haired ones who are dangerous, so they say. Now, the widow, she’s different. Her late husband used to say her only power is that of seduction, and I’ve no objection to that.”
That fairly well narrowed the topic of conversation, although Dunstan didn’t grasp the difference between Lady Leila and the rest of her clan. They were all golden-haired, dangerous seductresses, in some manner or other.
He could still feel her fingers on his chest a week after the fact. He could easily see how a Malcolm could sink her seductive talons into a man, and he’d never be free again—although dying of pleasure might be its own reward. It just wasn’t for him. He had other responsibilities.
“Her late husband’s nephew is offering a bounty to the first man who catches her,” Handel continued affably, apparently unconcerned that he was holding a conversation with himself.
The news about Lady Leila’s nephew surprised Dunstan. He hadn’t thought a young lad would be so astute as to offer cash to take the widow off his hands. “Why would he do that?” he asked, cursing himself for asking.
The macaroni shrugged his padded shoulders. “He keeps bad company? Perhaps he wants his estate back. The lady possesses only a life interest in it, and she surrenders that should she marry.”
Dunstan struggled to hide his shock. All his hard work, the field he’d just meticulously planted according to the latest scientific recommendations—left to the whims of a woman who might marry and lose it all? Was ever a man so great a fool as he?
“For a man with no wish to immerse himself in the country, her lack of land would be no matter,” the man continued, unaware he’d just dealt a blow to his listener. “She has wealth and position enough without it.”
His seeds were planted, damn it. He couldn’t leave now.
Raking his hands through his hair, Dunstan tried not to panic. How long would it be before she married and he was thrown out again by the heir? He’d only met the new Viscount Staines once and knew little of him, other than that he was an obnoxious adolescent just down from school, ripe for all the trouble London could provide.
“And your interest is?” Dunstan demanded, choosing belligerence over panic. The lady had hired him. He owed her the loyalty of protecting her from idle gossip, if naught else.
The fop grinned. “Just testing to see if you’re interested in a wealthier wife this time around. Full appellation is Arthur Garfield, Viscount Handel. I believe you expressed an interest in hiring me.”
An aristocrat! At the moment, Dunstan would prefer to plant his fist in the fop’s breadbasket for his mischief-making, but that wouldn’t convince the investigator that he wasn’t the type of man to go about strangling wives. Why the devil would Drogo recommend he hire a viscount? Better yet, why would a viscount be available for hire?
“If you must test me before I hire you, I’m not interested in your services,” Dunstan said, then drank deeply of his tankard and tried to disregard the shame and anger of having to prove himself to a coxcomb.
The viscount arranged himself elegantly on the seat across from him. “Of course you are interested in my services. You have the social grace of an ox. Your only hope of discovering the truth is to shake it out of someone.”
Dunstan grimaced at these truths. “I can’t afford a bloody viscount. Why the hell would you be interested?”
Handel fluttered his long fingers. “Naught better to do with my time. I only accept payment if I solve the mystery. It gives me a good excuse to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Such as in Lady Leila’s business?” Dunstan growled, still peeved at the macaroni for knowing more than he had about the lady’s estate.
“Oh, Staines is informing all London of that. You really ought to visit the city more often. It’s a hotbed of entertaining news. I can probably tell you far more about your wife and her lovers than you can tell me.”
He was no doubt right about that. Grumpily, Dunstan sipped his ale and scowled. There were times when he wasn’t at all certain that Celia deserved to have her killer brought to justice. And then he would remember the lovely child she’d been and know he was as guilty as she was. She’d thought he offered her a dream. Instead, he’d offered his surly self. More the fool, he. “I’d rather not hear the details,” he said. “I simply want to know what happened that night.”
“To know if you’re capable of murder?” the viscount asked.
The possibility haunted him. If he had killed Celia—the thought curdled Dunstan’s blood—then he was a danger to every woman he came across, particularly widows who annoyed him and barefoot country wenches who lured him astray.
Shoving his ale aside, Dunstan nodded curtly. “You’d best take payment in advance if you’re inclined to accept potential murderers as clients.”
Handel puckered his mouth in a frown of dismissal. “I’ll rely on your brother to take it out of your estate. A handshake will do.”
His estate—should he hang.
He would never have a life, much less an estate, if he had to live under a cloud of suspicion. A London macaroni would be far more adept than he at prying information out of the fast company Celia had kept.
Gritting his teeth, Dunstan held out his callused palm to the viscount’s soft white one and sealed the deal.
He’d been ignoring the flower gardens in favor of the income-producing fields—not a politically expedient choice, Dunstan could see now as he rode away from the tavern. He preferred logic to politics, but if Lady Leila was his employer, it might behoove him to ingratiate himself with her so she might give him a recommendation, should the time come when she married and her nephew took over the estate.
Disgruntled at the idea of groveling, Dunstan rode back under the light of the moon with an eye to looking over the land the lady wished cleared for her gardens. Contrary to what he’d led her to believe, he’d worked with his mother’s rosebushes in his youth. He preferred a good solid feed crop any day. Turnips replenished the soil and fed livestock, and the strain he’d developed would help struggling farmers.
Flowers? Frivolous folderol that benefited no one.
He reined in his horse on the side of the lane, tied it to a tree limb, and climbed the stile to inspect the soil. Roses didn’t like this rocky dirt, but he supposed the lady wouldn’t be aware of how to measure soil quality. He would have the devil of a time developing a fallow field like this one.
He could bring in the horse manure pile from behind the stable, he thought as he followed a sheep path around the side of the hill. He halted abruptly at the sight that greeted him.
The woman in red knelt so still in the moonlight, she didn’t appear to be breathing. Raven curls tumbled down h
er back and spilled over her slender shoulders, lifting occasionally in a light breeze as she gazed at something on the ground in front of her.
This woman never behaved in the manner of ordinary women—flying from stiles in thunderstorms, dancing in turnip fields at sunset. What the devil was she doing now? Worshiping the moon?
Common sense told him to turn around and come back tomorrow. Logic said she had no business being in the lady’s field at night. Instinct warned of the dangers to an unprotected female from thieves and rogues wandering the roads. Torn, Dunstan hesitated a moment too long.
She turned. Moonlight flashed in her eyes, and enchantment moistened her ruby lips. Holding a finger to those lips, she gestured for him to approach.
Curiosity won over good sense. Striding as silently as he could across the rocky field, much too aware of his bulk and her slenderness as he approached, he crouched beside her. “Are you insane, woman?” he whispered, not knowing why he whispered.
“Shhh. Look there.” She pointed to a clump of wild rose brambles sprawling across one of the many rocks scattered over the field. The branches bore the first green sprigs of spring.
Dunstan squinted through the moonlit darkness, feeling a fool. “I don’t see anything.”
“Brand-new baby rabbits,” she whispered. “Look, they’re no bigger than mice, and nearly as furless.”
“You’d better keep your cat away from them, then.” Rabbits! The woman had cotton for brains. He started to stand, but the mother rabbit twitched her nose and perked her ears, and he hesitated, drawn against his will. The newborns wriggled and squirmed, searching for warmth and food, helpless and unprotected against the dangers of the night. His fingers itched to touch them.
“Why did she make her nest here instead of in a rabbit hole?” she asked. “It’s not safe. Do you think we could move them?”
“They’re rabbits. They eat crops. And you want to save them?” Clinging to practicality, Dunstan regarded the fool woman with disbelief.
Hope welled in her eyes. “Could you, please?”
Her plea devastated his normal thought processes, and he struggled to find the logic behind her request. “You hate Lady Leila that much?”
She blinked in consternation and shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Those baby rabbits will munch her seedlings to the ground and grow into great big rabbits that will mow down her entire garden,” he pointed out.
“But they’re babies!” she protested illogically. “It’s not fair to hurt the helpless.”
Bound by her lack of reason—or her tempting curves—Dunstan surrendered. He tugged at his sleeve to release his arm from his coat. “You want to raise bait for Lord Staines’s hounds?” he suggested.
She shook her head and watched him with wide eyes that made him feel vastly interesting as he peeled off his coat.
“You have a fox at home that prefers rabbit stew?”
She chuckled as she caught on to his warped humor. Shaking her head, she checked the rabbits again, then watched with even greater admiration as Dunstan removed his vest.
“We could put them in a pen and fatten them for dinner,” he offered, hoping to lessen the impact of her eyes and the spring night and the sweet scent of a woman’s perfume. His gaze fell to her bee-stung lips, and he swallowed, hard.
“They’re babies,” she insisted.
His brain gave up on logic and focused on frailty and females and the desire to do whatever made her happy. Even in this poor light, he could tell her simple gown covered ample curves unhampered by a corset. He could reach out and touch her breasts with just . . .
He took a deep breath. “You have some suggestion as to where to move them?”
Leila beamed. She’d known she could trust Dunstan Ives, even if he was the most obstinate, irritating male alive. “Do you think you can? Mama Rabbit won’t like it.”
Dunstan touched his finger to his lips to silence her, then with surprising stealth for so large a man, he flung his coat over the mother rabbit and trapped her in its folds.
“Use my vest to carry the little ones.” He clung to the struggling rabbit while Leila delicately lifted the mewling creatures into the silk of Dunstan’s vest.
“Where to?” he demanded.
Rather than explain, Leila headed off across the field in the direction of the rocky hill ahead. Feeling freer than she had in ages, laughing eagerly at this chance to slip her bonds, she led the Ives a merry chase. She could smell his lust and disbelief and laughter, felt the astonishing rise of ardor within herself, and exulted in the newness.
“Here. There’s a crevice here.” She crouched down to show him the opening into the hill. “May I use your vest to soften the nest?”
“By all means,” he answered with a dryness that would have done a desert proud.
She smiled at the return of his usual dour nature. Swiftly and methodically, she slipped the vest with its precious contents into the protected shelter behind a boulder. When she was done, she sat back to let Dunstan release the mother rabbit. She held her breath until mama sniffed and twitched her nose and located her babies, then hopped into the hill and out of sight.
The laughter of relief and joy spilled from her lips, and daringly, she leaned over to hug Dunstan’s brawny neck. “Such a lovely man! Thank you, sir. Few others would be so kind.”
Ah, the scent of him! He filled her lungs with the precious aromas of adolescent nights and stolen kisses, of a time when all things had seemed possible and desire was new. Her breasts tingled and swelled at just the brush of his shirt. His lust and the scent of a spring night aroused all her senses.
He stiffened and stood up quickly, breaking her impetuous hug. “Few others would be so stupid,” he said gruffly. “The creatures will nibble Lady Leila’s flowers as fast as they grow.”
Stubborn man! Her flat boots brought her eyes to a level with his neckcloth when she rose to stand toe to toe with him. Leila contemplated strangling him with his cravat, but whimsy won out. She tilted her head and studied his locked jaw. “Then the lady will build a fence around the flowers. That’s your responsibility, isn’t it?”
Before Dunstan could react in his usual surly manner, Leila wrapped her fingers in his linen, stood on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his bristly cheek. “You’re not nearly as wicked as you pretend, sir.”
With a swiftness that caught her by surprise, he wrapped his big hands around her waist, lifted her from the ground, and captured her mouth. His kiss stole her breath, tingled her toes, and annihilated all ability to think. Parting her lips to his probing tongue, she clung to his shoulders for support as he accepted her offer.
Before she recovered her spinning senses, he abruptly set her back on her feet, grabbed his coat, and strode away.
Oh, my! Leila touched her fingers to her aching lips and let hunger flow to parts of her body long denied as she watched him walk away. He seemed to have no idea that he’d just awakened desires she’d never dreamed of.
Somewhere beneath the cold, controlled exterior of Dunstan Ives lay a wild stallion chomping at the bit.
It really wasn’t healthy to keep all that passion reined in. What would happen should she unleash it?
Intrigued, she rubbed her fingers over the lingering man smell of him on her cheek, and deliberated.
Six
In the rosy light of early morning, Leila happily studied the workshop she’d created in her late husband’s dairy. Her mother had sent equipment and vials of perfume bases from her own stores. Leila had ordered workbenches and shelves built to her specifications. She’d also purchased expensive scents from other gardeners so she could begin experimenting before her own fields grew. Finally, after years of Teddy’s disapproval, she had everything she needed to begin her lifelong dream.
Teddy must be rolling in his grave.
Crossing to the window overlooking the gardens that would flourish with flowers once Dunstan applied his formidable knowledge to them, she breathed in a sense of
accomplishment.
She’d conquered society for her husband’s sake. Now she was creating beauty for her own. And if all went well, she hoped to achieve far more than beauty.
Of course, all she’d accomplished so far was to plant a few struggling roses and make some scented soap. With a sigh, she returned to the vat of tallow and fat cooking on the stove. She’d adapted the family recipe to suit her delicate fragrances, but she thought a dash more lye would better befit a man like Dunstan Ives.
Remembering the manly chest beneath his worn linen, she smiled wickedly. She might not possess any Malcolm gifts, but she could recognize lust when she smelled it—the earthy Dunstan Ives craved the equally earthy woman in red. His scent evoked memories of long ago days when she’d thought marriage would be filled with passion and excitement.
She hadn’t thought to find passion in widowhood. She reached for the oil of patchouli. She was thinking forbidden thoughts, but she couldn’t help comparing the Dunstan who rescued baby rabbits with the arrogant gentleman who sulked in ballrooms and ignored a lady’s requests. She’d deliberately worn a mask of happiness and sensuality all these years to hide her unhappiness and lack of passion. Could Dunstan be hiding in the same way? Was he even aware of it?
She touched her nose and gazed over her choice of scents, then seized the container of dried honeysuckle.
She had stirred the liquid soap to perfect consistency and was in the process of pouring the batch into molds when a clatter of light feet and a spate of feminine giggles in the stone corridor warned that some portion of her family had arrived.
She almost felt irritation at being thus disturbed. She loved her family and she loved company, but right now—
“Leila, we’ve brought presents!” a sweet voice called—her younger sister, Felicity.
“Leila, was that an Ives we saw on the road?” Willowy and fair, Christina danced into the room. “No one has an aura like an Ives. I swear, the man exuded male—”
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