Must Be Magic

by Patricia Rice

  In the warmth of the sun, her heavy gown began to stick to her back as much as Dunstan’s shirt clung to his, and she wished for Lily’s simpler attire. She would become filthy and malodorous if she remained out in the sun and manure.

  So would Dunstan.

  Leila’s thoughts flitted to the bathing place she had found on her first visit to this estate. She thought it might once have been a holy well where the goddesses dwelt. She had no difficulty mixing the pagan beliefs of her ancestors with civilized religion. In actuality, she’d never given religion much thought at all, but the bathing place was a world of its own, and she craved it now.

  Could she profane such a place with an Ives?

  It was a heathen idea borne of her heathen sensuality, but Malcolms had never bothered with the normal boundaries of civilization. Maybe her ancestry was finally calling to her. Instead of stifling her natural instincts, shouldn’t she obey and see where they led?

  Excitement coursed through Leila at the possibility. Stripped of all the refinements of her privileged position, she could revert to the pagan residing inside her. She could find her inner essence, and maybe, someday, it would lead to her Malcolm gift.

  Then perhaps Dunstan would see her for who she really was—a woman like no other, and one who valued his opinion.

  Energized by the thought of having a true helpmate in this project, she glanced sideways at Dunstan and discovered him looking back at her. Tension swelled between them as he studied the way she dabbed her handkerchief at the perspiration trickling down her throat to her breasts. He reined his horse onward, taking his gaze away, but Leila felt it like a living thing rippling across her skin. He did desire her, as Adam desired Eve.

  He desired her whether she was Lily or Leila. That was a starting place.

  She’d never given her body to a man other than her husband. Stooping to check another bush for buds, Leila let her imagination conjure images of Dunstan naked and aroused. She could imagine even further than that, and moisture pooled between her legs, making her tremble.

  Desire, hot and thick, hampered her thoughts. When Dunstan ordered the men to take a dinner break, she sat on the wall of rocks and took deep breaths.

  She needed the field plowed. Dunstan mustn’t stop now.

  But there was nothing to prevent them from visiting her cave once the work was done.

  How would she get him there? Did she dare?

  Would the experience open his eyes and persuade him to see Leila as Lily? Or would it just enrage him past caring?

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Deciding Dunstan was much more likely to follow Lily than Leila, she offered him a beaming smile that left him looking stunned, then skirts swaying, she left the field.

  Women plotted methods of driving men mad, Dunstan decided as the men dragged themselves out of the field at day’s end. The image of Lady Leila watching him with Lily’s eyes still seared his mind.

  He’d wager the mystery of the lady’s eyes could easily be solved if he applied his mind to it. Lady Leila had probably thrown him together with one of her family’s by-blows for some design that was beyond his ability to comprehend. His family tree had sufficient illegitimate twigs on it for him to know the high probability of such occurrences. For all he knew, Lady Leila and Lily were plotting together to make him insane. They looked enough alike to think alike.

  The wretched memory of last night’s dinner clawed at his insides. Lady Leila was an older, more experienced version of Celia at her worst—with nothing better to do with her idle life than taunt and torment.

  And yet midnight-blue eyes had haunted his sleep. Lily’s eyes, he decided. Not the lady’s.

  Lady Leila smelled of roses and powder. Lily smelled of mud and fresh air. They couldn’t be one and the same. He desired the free-spirited wench, not the corseted proper lady.

  Even as he thought of her, Lily slipped into the field through a thicket of old hedge he’d not ripped out yet. While he watched, she stooped to examine a rosebush just as the lady had done earlier. Black curls tumbled down her back, lifting in the evening breeze.

  Dunstan removed his sodden handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and wearily picked up the horse’s reins, ignoring the tempting female whirling about in happy circles beneath the newly constructed arch at the garden entrance. With a concerted effort, he focused on admiring the loamy furrows of rich earth spreading around him and savored a sense of accomplishment.

  Neat rows and new green leaves lined the landscape as far as the eye could see. The stone wall prevented the lambs from gamboling through the lavender beds. The first timbers of a pergola stood at the end of a curving garden path.

  Trying not to think too hard of the havoc a bratling like Staines could wreak on these gardens and his crops, Dunstan grudgingly admired the woman who was expressing her delight with such exuberance. His respect for Lily was based on more than lust. Whoever or whatever she was, she’d ensnared him with her lightheartedness and quick wit as much as with the enticing blue of her eyes.

  Unlike the lady’s corseted gown, the bright blue linen of Lily’s bodice clung to breasts as full and unfettered as ripe melons. Lily—his mind insisted. Lily of the valley, a wildflower free for the taking. Lily of the muddy fingers and tart tongue and refreshing honesty. Lily, who lacked proper respect for his authority.

  Because she wasn’t just Lily?

  Groaning, Dunstan dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. He still had to lead the oxen back to their field.

  He was a man, and men lusted after beguiling wenches like Lily. He could accept that. But he could never fall for a manipulative Malcolm. He simply couldn’t conceive of it, didn’t dare think of it. He preferred keeping the two women separate in his mind—the legitimate lady and her illegitimate cousin.

  No fluttering fans or powdered hair or artificial beauty patches disguised the female who was currently playing hide-and-seek with her cat. Dunstan could almost feel the thrust of her breasts in his palms, so keenly did he want them. Once, he’d touched her with his crude hands, and she hadn’t objected.

  Sweat poured from his brow. He wiped it on his shirtsleeve. He wanted to strip off his shirt, but he didn’t dare—her presence prevented it. Another part of him wanted to don his coat and hide behind it, as if she were the lady he feared—

  He was afraid of Lady Leila.

  A cold shiver of shock shot down his spine. Afraid of a woman?

  Afraid of a lady—like Celia.

  The door in his mind slammed open, ripped off its hinges.

  Midnight-blue eyes lifted to watch him, and Dunstan couldn’t swallow the lump of panic in his throat as their gazes met. Lily’s fingers molded and patted the rich soil around a loose rose cane, and he could almost feel those fingers kneading his bare flesh.

  Maybe Lady Leila was the phantom. Maybe Lily had stepped into her shoes. Maybe he was going mad.

  Maybe he’d better run for his life, but his life would be worth nothing if he ran. What would happen if he stayed and acted on the tension building between them? What would his life be if she really were the lady whom all his instincts feared?

  His mind refused to juxtapose the elegant, aloof lady with her delicate black gloves and jewels against the image of the accessible lass digging her dirty fingers into the raw soil. Where was the fair-haired, haughty Malcolm in this dark-haired, rebellious gypsy?

  Would a real lady kneel in the dirt and look for rabbits? Celia wouldn’t have.

  Ladies didn’t belong in fields. Ladies weren’t supposed to perspire. Yet he’d forgotten the one important element in all of this—

  Lady Leila was no ordinary lady. She was a Malcolm.

  And he was looking at a Malcolm—irrevocably and irretrievably a confusing, conniving, surely illegitimate Malcolm, despite all appearances to the contrary.

  He wanted two women, and both were Malcolms.

  Ten

  Dunstan tugged the oxen’s harness, intending to lead them back
to pasture, but Lily’s magical voice halted him in his tracks. “I have something I’d like to show you.”

  She had a lot he’d like to see. Grimacing in exasperation as his unruly thoughts took a wrong turn before he’d even left the field, Dunstan glanced briefly in her direction.

  She’d skipped across the furrows until she stood mere yards away from him. A rising breeze caught her black curls, lifting them off her shoulders to uncover curves molded by a V of perspiration. Firm and high, her breasts taunted him.

  He liked the bright blue on her—so much happier than the widow’s weeds Leila wore.

  “I must take the oxen back,” he answered curtly, leading the animals away. He didn’t know what game she played, but he’d be better to stay out of it.

  “We go through their pasture to reach the place I want to show you.” She hurried across the remaining rows to join him. “You will like this place, I promise.”

  He was too tired to argue. Or too riddled with lust. He drove the oxen toward the gate, all too aware of the woman striding easily beside him. She carried herself as regally as a lady in her parlor. Beneath the aroma of manure, he detected the hint of rose perfume. How could he have missed that earlier?

  Perhaps Lady Leila had given the perfume to her, as she’d given the soap to him. He tried to shut the door in his mind. He couldn’t put all the pieces together—the blatant provocativeness, the easy laughter, and blunt honesty of Lily with the sultry flirtatiousness, conniving eccentricity, and regal elegance of Lady Leila.

  A taunting voice in his head warned him that all women looked alike in the dark. All he had to do was close his eyes.

  Except that he didn’t dare close his eyes around a Malcolm.

  Lily seemed preoccupied and tense, as if uncertain of her invitation now that she’d given it. Perhaps she would change her mind, and he could go home to soak in a tub of hot water.

  He refused to look at her again. Until he could provide for his own livelihood, he had no right to look at any woman, aristocrat or otherwise. His private investigator had reported he’d made little progress in discovering Celia’s killer. It could be a lengthy and expensive investigation. The real murderer might never be known. He might never comprehend the depth of his own depravity.

  With the oxen safely in their enclosed pasture, Dunstan glanced at the setting sun. “A full moon tonight,” he commented idly. “A good night for planting.”

  He sensed more than saw her startled look.

  “Were you planning on planting anything?” she asked, striking out across the field without looking back to see if he followed.

  “They’re planting at the south farm today and tomorrow. That’s why the oxen were free.” Wondering where she could possibly be leading him, Dunstan took more interest in his surroundings. They’d circled the hill and come out on the other side, where weather had eroded the loose soil, exposing outcroppings of rock. Definitely not suitable for planting here. He could see why the late Lord Staines had chosen this site for the widow’s dower house. That, and the trees on the hillside. Malcolms loved trees.

  The two women, Leila and Lily, blended together in his head—haughty Lady Leila with her hints of vulnerability and brazen Lily with her lack of servility.

  The thought that the two women could be one who had tricked him for a reason beyond his ken irritated the back of his mind. What the devil could she be up to—whoever she was?

  “Do flowers fare better if they’re planted in the full of the moon?” she inquired, scrambling over a large rock.

  “Probably, although I’ve never planted flowers, so I can’t say. Are we going rock climbing?” Dunstan reluctantly followed. He couldn’t imagine Lady Leila climbing rocks.

  When Lily attempted to climb onto a ledge that was almost as high as she was, he caught her waist and lifted her up. His palm brushed the softness of a full buttock, and he winced with a surge of reawakened desire. This woman could not be Lady Leila. Touching a lady with such familiarity would have resulted in having his head knocked off his neck.

  Yet even Lily had swatted him the first day they met.

  When his steps hesitated, she glanced back impatiently. “It’s right here. We won’t go far.”

  He swung his booted foot over the ledge and hauled himself up so he could stand beside her. In the twilight, he could just discern a darkened crevice between two slabs of upright boulders. “A cave? You want me to see a cave?”

  “Not just any cave. A special cave. You’ll see.” She fumbled among the rocks until she produced a flint and taper.

  He struck the flint for her, and she thrust the candlewick into the spark. The flame shone wanly in the daylight, but brightened as she slipped through the opening.

  Dunstan had to squeeze through edgewise to follow, ducking to keep from knocking his head. Lily waited for him inside, her candle casting shadows over a high cavern that smelled of dampness and soil. She stood tall and proud as any lady, and he no longer fought to separate the two women. He simply knew he wanted this woman, couldn’t have her, and that he tempted the devil to follow her anywhere.

  “Fascinating,” he said wryly, not seeing beyond her supple curves and a banner of silken hair.

  “Isn’t it?” she agreed in awe, not realizing where his thoughts had traveled. “You can feel the power here. The gods must have blessed this place.” She moved forward, taking the light with her.

  Crazy Malcolms, Dunstan thought. If he needed any more proof of her lineage, black hair or fair, talking of gods and power should do it. Unless all women were plagued with fantasies of things that remained unseen.

  “There,” she announced with satisfaction, coming to a halt before a grotto of rising steam.

  Forgetting the conundrum of her identity, Dunstan blinked in disbelief. Bubbling water smelling of minerals foamed at the base of the moss-covered rocks he stood upon. Someone had carefully cultivated a garden of vines that climbed and clung to the walls, reaching for the sun that must shine through the hole above, where he could see stars now. Flowery perfume wafted beneath his nose, and he almost expected faerie lights to twinkle around them.

  “What is this place?” He’d intended to sound curt, but a note of awe spoiled the effect. It had been a long, long time since he’d enjoyed a sight like this one.

  Her laughter floated like harpsichord notes—not beside him, but below. Startled, he tore his gaze from the amazing greenery to examine the bubbling spring. He could see only a pool of blackness.

  “It’s wonderfully warm,” she called. “Come, join me.”

  He damned well couldn’t even see her. She’d been standing right there beside him, where the taper flickered from a notch upon the wall—where her filthy gown and petticoat now lay flung across an outcropping.

  She was naked and bathing in the spring.

  The breath caught in his lungs, and heat poured into a part of his anatomy that had led him into more trouble than he cared to remember. He mustn’t succumb. Mustn’t let her magic draw him deeper—to places he shouldn’t go but that every male part of him demanded he explore.

  Yet she could be in danger in that black pit, he told himself. It was enough to lead him to the brink of temptation.

  He couldn’t see her in this midnight blackness. Apprehensively, he sat on the edge of the pool and jerked off his boots and stockings. What if she bumped her head on the rocks and drowned herself? “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. It’s not deep.”

  Light from the taper leapt and played along the ebony surface beneath the starlit hole above, but below, the water’s edge disappeared into deep shadows, frothing beneath him, yet invisible elsewhere. He still couldn’t see her.

  The steaming water beckoned. He could almost imagine the feel of it against the sticky sweat on his skin. But it wasn’t the temptation of a heated bath that called to him.

  This woman had trusted him with knowledge of this special place, expected him to enjoy it as she did. He knew how it felt to have a hea
rt’s desire treated as nothing. He couldn’t wound her by disparaging her dreams any more than he could have harmed his younger brothers.

  Dunstan hauled his linen shirt over his head. Steam from the pool caressed his bare chest. He stood and stripped off his breeches.

  Logic screamed for him to grab his boots and run. Pride, lust, and darker emotions overruled the thought of ignominious retreat.

  Velvet moss eased his entry into the steaming waters. Instant heat soaked through his weary flesh, drawing him deeper. The healing power of mineral water relaxed every taut muscle, and Dunstan groaned in relief. If the little witch thought to seduce him, she’d underestimated the effects of a hot bath.

  Little witch.

  Warning bells clamored, but heated languor slowed his brain, and a musical voice distracted.

  “There should be soap on the ledge behind you.”

  Caught in the spell of the pool, he’d momentarily forgotten her. Steam rose around him, making it impossible to see his hand in front of his face. No longer wary, he groped along the ledge until he located the waxy oval. He’d never taken a mineral bath. He thought he could learn to enjoy the experience.

  “Are you certain we should use this place?” he called into the darkness. The pool only reached his waist at the deepest point, so he lost his fear that she would drown in it.

  “The gods own this place. Ask their permission.” Amusement laced her voice, combined with the rhythmic splashes of bathing.

  The soap’s scent reminded him of the bars Lady Leila had sent with her sisters. The aroma of new-mown grass blended with the earthy odor of the cave in a subtly pleasing combination.

  Ducking his head beneath the water, scrubbing at the day’s grime, Dunstan thought he’d never experienced such a thorough sense of well-being. She was right. He didn’t know the how or why of it, but this was a special place. He should thank her for it.