Must Be Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “Christina!” Leila reprimanded. “Felicity is too young to hear that.”

  “Felicity is a dull bookworm who may not wish to hear, but she’s certainly old enough.”

  Ignoring the petty squabbling of her sisters, Felicity wandered along Leila’s workbench, pushing her spectacles up her nose to inspect labels, refraining from touching anything with her gloved hands. “This is so much nicer than Mama’s workshop. Could you make a scent for me?”

  “It can only be a common scent,” Leila warned. “I don’t have my own distillations yet.”

  Felicity poked at the soap molds and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I trust we will not bathe with these. They are very strong, and not very pretty.”

  More experienced in scents, Christina bent to smell, too. She threw Leila a roguish look as she straightened again. “Musk. These are for a man. Not the Ives, surely?”

  Impatiently, Leila discarded her apron and strode toward the door. “I assume Ives men must bathe as others do. Come, let’s have some tea, and you can tell me of your journey. Will you stay long?”

  “Mama wants me to debut this year,” Felicity called, clattering ahead of them, stopping occasionally to inspect decorations in the dairy’s tiled walls. “But I don’t think I shall marry. Surely we have wealth enough by now. The family coffers do not need my contribution.”

  Leila laughed at the old complaint. “You have not yet been kissed, have you? You’ll change your mind.”

  Felicity favored her with a disgruntled look and raced ahead. Leila’s nose twitched at the scent of anxiety Felicity left behind, reminding her of her own first come-out. The scent summoned vivid memories of moonlit nights and overeager suitors. She’d been brash enough to try their kisses. Felicity wasn’t.

  She missed her sisters and the hurly-burly of society. She ought to be with her family for their debuts and triumphs, not plodding through muddy fields. But muddy fields might produce the means of truly becoming part of her family. She had to try.

  She refrained from rubbing her nose and let memories of past glories fade. Candlelit balls and glittering jewels didn’t equate with happiness.

  Christina dallied behind, swinging her beaded reticule. “Lord Harry Hollingswell has asked Father for my hand,” she said casually. “I’ve known him all my life, and even if he is only the duke’s younger son, Aunt Stella says we will suit.”

  “You know better than any of us if he’s a good man,” Leila replied cautiously. Love had little to do with Malcolm marriages. They all knew that. Men seldom understood the Malcolm gifts, and where there wasn’t understanding, there couldn’t be love. Still, the deeper knowledge of character provided by their gifts allowed them to arrange solid marriages that provided wealth, more Malcolms, and a higher level of satisfaction than most.

  Ninian had unexpectedly thrown over all expectations a few years ago by marrying for love, and minor rebellion had occasionally rippled through the younger set ever since. If Leila could save her sisters from the boredom and resentment she’d suffered in her marriage, she would, but without the gifts the rest of her family possessed, she did not feel wise enough to make that judgment on her own.

  Christina shrugged. “Harry is good, but dull. He is only a few years my elder. We may be married a long time.”

  Leila nodded sympathetically. “Then he had best be a man who allows you to go on as you wish. Tell Maman that. She will understand.”

  “I can’t read that much into his aura.”

  “Does Harry know you read auras?” Leila asked, knowing how difficult it had been for the logical Drogo to accept Ninian’s empathic gifts.

  Christina glanced away. “He laughs and calls me his imaginative little creature.” Indignation tinged her voice. “Men are always pleasant and accommodating when they want something. Once they have their way, they’re impossible.”

  Leila chuckled. “A duke’s younger son has no need to provide an heir, and Harry already knows to expect only girls from Malcolm women, so he must be marrying you for more than your looks. He will be fascinated for many years if you play your cards well.”

  “I’d rather play my cards with someone exciting, like an Ives,” Christina grumbled.

  “As a rule, men like that make very bad husbands. Drogo excluded, of course,” Leila warned with amusement. “Drogo has the title and wealth. The other Ives are all poor and dangerous.”

  Felicity burst back upon them before Christina could reply. “There’s a grand carriage coming up the drive. Are you expecting visitors?”

  Leila groaned. More of the eager suitors her nephew encouraged, she supposed. Drat the brat, she had wanted to plant her new roses today, not entertain unwanted suitors.

  And she wanted to see Dunstan in his shirtsleeves again. The man’s immense knowledge captured her imagination, but there was something about a man in dishabille. . . .

  Foolish thought. She’d best concentrate on her guests. For the sake of her sisters and their introduction to society, she must don her smiling mask and welcome her nephew’s guests.

  The lady had demanded his presence—again.

  Dunstan tugged down his overly tight vest—his good one now lined a rabbit hole, thanks to a foolish woman, or his foolish lust—and prodded his gelding toward the rose garden rising out of a rock field.

  He couldn’t believe he’d rescued a damned rabbit because of a woman, but it certainly served as a reminder of her different manner of thinking—and of his inability to resist her wiles.

  Tying his horse to a branch, he cut across the lawn to the field where he’d found the girl in red last night. He stopped short at the sight he encountered past the hill.

  Lady Leila, wearing a black gown accented with a lacy white neckerchief and a swooping black hat that concealed her face from the sun, stood watching over gardeners digging at the skeletal remains of her blighted roses.

  The laborers Dunstan had ordered to clear the field worked around her, carrying rocks to a wall meant to prevent the flock of gamboling ewes and lambs from grazing the flower beds.

  Dunstan glared in annoyance at the stack of brown rose canes piling up beside the workmen. He hadn’t ordered anyone to touch the roses. He’d been waiting to see if any of them were still alive. Lady Leila was a damned incompetent gardener, but a determined one. Even as he watched, she shooed away a curious lamb while pointing out another blackened bush to her crew.

  Fool woman was bent on building this garden, with or without him. He’d best teach her how to do it properly. Stripping off his coat and flinging it over the wall, he lifted the lamb out of the rows, gently carried it to the other side of the wall, then stalked across the remains of the rose garden.

  Aware of her stare, Dunstan recognized the impropriety of appearing before a lady in his loose shirt. She’d have to get used to it if she insisted on visiting the fields. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he approached.

  “What do you care?” she replied, scrubbing at her cheek with the back of her gloved hand. “You have not bothered to tend them.”

  “I’ve had men out here every day—” Coming close enough to see the tear tracks staining her fair skin, he stumbled over his tongue. “What the devil are you crying over?” he inquired, realizing even as he said it that he only made matters worse.

  The lady jerked down her veil to hide her wet cheeks. “They’re dead! All those magnificent flowers and magical scents—lost. Don’t you feel anything?”

  “They’re certainly dead once you rip them out of the ground.” Not wanting to care about damned useless roses, Dunstan glared at the workmen, who were watching him warily. “Leave the bushes alone,” he snapped. “Harness the oxen to the plow. Once this field is turned, use the wagon to carry the stones over to the boundary wall.”

  He didn’t bother checking to see if they obeyed. From an early age, he had taken it for granted that men would follow his orders. Men followed orders. Women, on the other hand . . .

  Dunstan wra
pped his fingers around the lady’s elbow, steering her away from the stack of uprooted bushes. “I’ll dig out the dead ones. They were planted too early and the change in weather damaged them. Some might still live if they’re treated properly.”

  “Really? You can save them?”

  Her sob of relief pierced an unguarded chink in his armor.

  Dunstan didn’t have the words or the time or the patience to talk to elegant ladies, particularly ones smelling of roses and jasmine. “Maybe. If you’ll stay out of my way.”

  “You’re a big fraud, you know.” Not moving away, she tilted her head so he could see the smile forming on her lips.

  Startled at being told something similar for the second time in twenty-four hours, Dunstan dropped her elbow and glared at her. She was but a shallow flirt, and he should take no notice of her foolishness. But a small voice in the back of his head warned that she was also a Malcolm. What was she trying to tell him?

  At his thunderous silence, her smile widened. “Beneath that prickly exterior of yours is a man who cares.”

  Fool woman! Having expected something much more momentous, Dunstan growled, “Not about roses,” and stomped away, trying hard not to hear her laughter.

  Locating the first heavy stone available, he hefted it to his shoulder and heaved it in the direction of the wall. Hard physical labor had helped ease his sexual frustration these past years. He would probably kill himself if the damned Malcolm insisted on polishing her temptress talents on him.

  In the shade of evening, after donning her old gardening gown and slipping away from her guests, Leila examined the results of Dunstan’s efforts. The wall was almost high enough to keep out the sheep, and the roses had been pruned back to tiny shoots of green. Her heart leapt wild and free with excitement.

  Letting her cat scamper after a field mouse, she stooped to test the quality of the soil as she’d seen Dunstan do, and didn’t realize she had company until a lengthy shadow fell across the furrow.

  The scent of smoke and cards and an underlying tension told her who it was before she glanced up. Henry Wickham. He’d appeared with the other guests earlier, apparently apprised by her nephew that her sisters were on their way. She didn’t remember him as being so nervous when he’d courted her in London, but he wasn’t much older than herself and probably new to the activity. Annoyed that he’d caught her with her guard down, she remained kneeling.

  “You have some interest in fields?” she inquired dryly, knowing he seldom left the city. Wickham wasn’t a large man, but the kind of languid, lace-and-beribboned gentleman who spent far too much time at card tables and too little outdoors.

  “Only in what grows in them, if you are any example,” he replied suggestively.

  Leila narrowed her eyes. In the fading daylight, he stood over her, swaying slightly. She wouldn’t call his words the polite flattery he usually bestowed on her. He’d no doubt spent too much time imbibing liquid courage after dinner.

  She bit back the insult that leapt to her tongue and started to rise.

  Wickham caught her elbow and dragged her upward. “Come here, and let me have a better look. I have a shiny coin for you, if you suit.”

  Leila gaped at the insult. The light must be poor, or he was too besotted to recognize her voice or see anything but her unbound, unpowdered hair and rough clothes. She had dressed casually in hopes of catching Dunstan here, not some drunken rake.

  She ought to be afraid, but mischief won out. “And I have a shiny knife for you, if you don’t let go,” she warned in her best tavern wench manner.

  “Now that’s no way to speak to a gentleman. I know the lady of the manor. I could have you turned off this land, if I so desired.” He tugged with more force than such a slender man should possess, hurting her arm and upsetting her balance. “It’s much more pleasant to accept my coins.”

  Despite their similar heights, he was stronger, and Leila staggered, catching herself by slamming her free hand against the lace of his cravat. Even though she lacked her usual high heels and powdered curls, he surely ought to recognize her at this close range. He stank of ale and polluted lust, and she had to fight not to rub her twitching nose. Anger rising, she jerked her imprisoned arm. “Let me go, fool, or I’ll have the magistrate after you.”

  “He’s not here, is he, then? Damn, but you’re a bawdy wench.” Obviously still blind to anything but her gender and her clothes, Henry twisted his fingers in her unruly hair and pulled her toward him.

  She’d been gently raised in the household of a marquess. No one had ever treated her in such a manner. Revulsion raised bile in her throat, but fury won out.

  “Let me go, you jackanapes!” she cried loudly, stomping his foot as hard as she could. But he wore boots and didn’t notice. She kicked his shin, and he wrenched her hair harder. Leila screamed in stunned outrage, too furious to feel fear.

  “Vermin generally wait until full dark,” a deep voice intruded. “It’s much too easy to put musket balls through tiny heads in daylight.”

  Dunstan. Leila scarcely had time to register his scent before Wickham released her. She stumbled backward, tripped in the soft soil, and fell on her rear, knocking the breath from her lungs. The tumble didn’t disturb her enough to tear her gaze from the man who was strolling across the rough furrows, following her cat, Jehoshaphat.

  Dunstan sauntered as lazily as the animal, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The tension in the powerful muscles of his shoulders gave the lie to his insouciance.

  He didn’t carry a weapon. Leila rather wished he did. Wickham’s usually affable expression had turned ugly. Apparently he was better at recognizing men than women—but then, Dunstan’s size and unfashionable black queue were unmistakable.

  “Ives!” Wickham all but hissed in fury as the large man reached them. “They ought to have hanged you by now.”

  Dunstan rolled his big hands into fists that Leila admired longingly. If only she had fists like that . . .

  “I have rich relatives to protect me. Who do you have?” he asked in mockery.

  Recovering from the ignominy of her position, Leila brushed the dirt off her palms and remained seated. “No one,” she replied for Wickham. “He is a leech who gambles his allowance and runs up debts in anticipation of his uncle’s early demise.”

  Wickham gaped at her in disbelief. “Who do you think you are, a witch like yonder bitch on the hill?” He returned to Dunstan. “She is naught but a sharp-tongued vixen. It’s none of your affair, unless you have taken to wallowing with pigs.”

  Leila removed her pruning knife from its sheath and contemplated how much of his boot she could carve before he noticed.

  “Put the knife away.” Dunstan’s voice was cool and distant. “Wickham comes from a family of vultures and wouldn’t recognize the superiority of pigs if it was explained to him.”

  She almost smiled at that. Resheathing her knife, she stayed sprawled where she was, admiring the silhouette of Dunstan’s broad shoulders encased in white linen against the fading light of day. She remembered the rumors now—Dunstan was said to have killed Wickham’s older brother in a duel over the feckless Celia. She ought to be afraid, but she was too interested in how Dunstan would handle the situation. She sensed it had become more his battle than hers.

  She was beginning to understand why Dunstan hid behind a mask of brooding indifference. The likes of Wickham would crush a man who cared.

  “You’ll hang for what you did to George,” Wickham snarled. “And then they’ll boil you in oil for murdering your tramp of a wife.”

  “Run, fetch the magistrate and the rope,” Dunstan offered, planting his fists on his hips and thrusting his square chin forward. “Or would you like to call me out? I prefer fisticuffs, but I can wield a sword if I must.”

  “I won’t lower myself to dueling with peasants,” Wickham sneered, retrieving his gloves from his coat pocket and pulling them on. “You will pay for my brother’s death. I will see to it.”

&nb
sp; “Well, be about it, then, and leave the woman alone. It may come as a surprise to you, but sometimes when a woman says no, she means it.”

  Wickham laughed. “You believe that, do you? They all spread their—”

  Dunstan’s fist shot out so fast that he caught Wickham’s tongue between his teeth. Leila winced as blood spurted and her would-be suitor staggered beneath the blow. Before she could scramble to her feet, Dunstan had casually lifted Wickham by the back of his coat and breeches and heaved him in the general direction of the house.

  “I suggest you go back to your mother and tell her the nature of women,” Dunstan called while his opponent scrambled up and rubbed his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand.

  Rising, Leila stepped between them, shielding Dunstan with her back before the situation could deteriorate further. “Better yet, tell it to Lady Leila,” she called gaily, enjoying her charade more than she’d enjoyed any London masquerade. “She has a whole family who might enjoy teaching you differently.”

  Dunstan’s arm circled her waist, pulling her back against his solid chest to halt her taunts. Despite the violence of the encounter, he scarcely breathed hard. Rather than protest his audacity in pulling her close, Leila snuggled her posterior into his crotch and enjoyed the quickening of his breath and a more substantial part of his anatomy.

  Cursing, Wickham disappeared into the darkness, but Dunstan didn’t offer to release her.

  “You have a wicked tongue,” he murmured, his low voice in her ear shooting shivers down her spine.

  His bold touch encouraged her more dangerous desires. Leaning into him, Leila scraped her fingernails lightly along the strong male hands clasping her waist. “Want to taste it?” she taunted.

  His sharp intake of breath confirmed that he felt the same excitement she did. Her husband had never incited her to such a level of arousal, certainly never with all his clothes on and no other stimulation but an embrace. Inexperienced at wanting a man, she was half afraid of what would happen next, yet she trusted this Ives on a level beyond logic.