A Well Favored Gentleman: Well Pleasured #2

by Christina Dodd

  He had to ask. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m rehearsing an incantation to ease Wilda’s mind.” Looking into the flames, she bit her lip. “I wish I knew what spell she wanted. It would make it easier to know what to have and what to do.”

  Ian couldn’t help himself. Walking up behind Alanna, he gripped her shoulders in his palms. “Thank you.”

  His voice came out harshly, as if he were angry, but she looked up at him and smiled, then laid her cheek on the back of his hand. “We’ll do it for Wilda, shall we?”

  By the time he returned with a clean set of woolen garments, Alanna had made herself up with charcoal, and covered her bright hair with ash. She was the witch again, but looking at her, he wondered that she had ever fooled him—he, who had always prided himself on seeing more—and wondered more if every man saw only what he expected to see.

  She swung in a circle for him. “Will I cozen her, do you think?”

  “You look fearsome, but we’ll douse the lights for good measure.” He slipped the gown over her clothing, then helped her roll a length of cloth in a good-sized hump.

  “I put the kettle on to boil, and slipped some allspice and cloves into it. Can you smell it yet?”

  He sniffed. “Yes, I can. What magic does that make?”

  She grinned, and charcoal flaked off around her mouth. “It gives off a sweet scent.” She secured several pouches and a knife at her waist with a length of rope. “The bubbling sound and the steam are part of the act. Old Mab taught me that.”

  “She taught you a lot, didn’t she?”

  “How to care for myself when my mother died.” Alanna was still smiling, but rather crookedly. “You once mocked me for saying that Lady Alanna had spent a great deal of time at the witch’s hut, Ian, but it was true. Mab taught me how to care for my people. Later, when she had to, she took me in and taught me how to disguise myself. We could have been caught, and she would have been hurt, but she did it anyway.” One tear tracked down the dust of her cheek. “I miss her.”

  Moving close, he caught the tear, then helped smear the ash back into unity. “You’re doing what she would have wanted. Healing people. Helping Wilda. Mab would be proud of you, Alanna MacLeod.”

  “I hope so.”

  She said it so quietly, he knew she was thinking about the stones once more. Probably their disappearance dominated her mind. Yet they could do nothing tonight, so she made herself hideous to help Wilda make a spell. And he was happy for that. Happy to offer his cousin as a distraction. “I’ll go get Wilda now.”

  Wilda opened the door at the first rap of his knuckles. “Alanna found the witch lurking near the kitchen,” he said. “But the cook wanted to throw her out for making the stew taste too good, so Alanna is keeping the cook busy while the witch helps you.”

  As Ian turned away, Wilda followed eagerly. “Did she remember me?”

  “The witch? Of course. She’s only been waiting at Fionnaway to help you. After that, she wants to go to her hut.”

  “I hope it’s not a difficult spell.” Wilda came as close to brooding as Wilda could get. “I hope she can do it.”

  “She’s an excellent witch,” he found himself assuring her.

  “That’s not what you said before.” Wilda glared at him as he opened the door to the bedchamber. “You said the witch had no powers.”

  “Kennie the blacksmith convinced me otherwise,” he said smoothly.

  Wilda nodded knowingly and flounced into the room, then stopped short. Stepping inside, Ian could see why. Alanna had doused the candles, giving night possession of the room. The fireplace flickered and popped, the kettle steamed with a slight hum, a swirl of smoke drifted on the air, and Alanna herself was a misshapen lump of witchly majesty seated at the table where a single candle wavered low.

  “Come in, child.” Alanna beckoned with a grease-covered hand.

  Wilda crept forward, her gaze fixed on the witch.

  “Come and sit down.”

  One chair sat empty opposite Alanna, and Wilda pulled it out. The chair legs scraped across the floorboards with a screeching sound, and Wilda glanced anxiously over her shoulder at Ian.

  Remembering her previous conviction that the magic wouldn’t work if he knew of it, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No.” Wilda’s voice squeaked.

  Taking a stool, he watched as Alanna laid her hand in the middle of the table, palm up. “Give me your hands, dearie. Let me read the lines.”

  Wilda’s hands trembled as she laid them on the table beside Alanna’s, and Alanna pushed the candle over to light them. “The lines of your left hand and your right hand are very different. That means circumstances haven’t allowed you to fulfill your talents.”

  “I don’t have any talents,” Wilda said.

  “Your hands say you do. This mound”—Alanna tapped the raised area below Wilda’s thumb—“is raised. That means you’re warmhearted. The line of life loops wide around it. You’re vibrantly alive. You have much to give, and no one to give it to.”

  Wilda nodded, then Ian was horrified to see a tear drip from her chin onto the table. Were all his women going to cry tonight?

  “But things are about to shift.” Alanna traced the life line. “Look. Here. A change comes to you now, because you were persistent and determined to see old witchy. Tell me what you want.”

  “I want”—Wilda took a quivering breath—“a spell. I want…to be good.”

  Alanna didn’t move. She just stared at Wilda, waiting.

  Wilda remained silent, evidently convinced she had explained sufficiently.

  “You are good,” Alanna said.

  “No. No, I’m not. For a long time I couldn’t understand why no one loved me.” Wilda’s voice trembled. “Then I realized—I’m a Fairchild. I’m evil, just like the rest of them, and I need someone to make me good.”

  Alanna’s mouth hung slightly open, and her eyes looked glazed.

  Ian spoke from his corner. “Wilda, do you want the witch to create a spell to make you good?”

  “That’s what I said.” Wilda sounded cross now.

  Leaning against the wall, Ian grinned in rueful amusement. Trust Wilda to completely undermine Alanna’s preparations. He was willing to bet she didn’t know one incantation that had anything to do with “good.”

  “Well,” Alanna croaked finally. “Evil old witchy doesn’t usually get a request for this.”

  “But you can do it, can’t you?” Wilda asked.

  “Of course.” Alanna patted Wilda’s wrist. “Just for you. I only hope I don’t get struck down by lightning.”

  “Oh, no.” Wilda half rose from her chair. “I don’t want you hurt!”

  “You’re not good, heh?” Alanna cocked her head, then nodded at her deliberately. “I won’t get hurt, and this will be easier than you think.” Rising, she opened the kettle and let out a gush of steam that carried the scent of cloves and allspice into the room. With a wooden spoon she stirred wildly, and Ian could almost see her contemplating. Then, lifting a spoonful of liquid from the kettle, she trudged slowly toward Wilda, her hand cupped underneath to catch the drips. Standing before her, Alanna flicked drops of spicy water over Wilda’s head, while reciting something in Gaelic.

  Ian thought it sounded remarkably like the grace the crofters said before each meal.

  Wilda sat with her face outstretched, allowing each drop to settle on her face like a benediction.

  With a hand on her arm, Alanna gently lifted Wilda to her feet and spun her around three times. She chanted again, and this time Ian definitely recognized the words to an old Scottish planting song. Then she sat Wilda back down and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

  Stepping back, Alanna said, “There you have it. Goodness.”

  Wilda stared at Alanna. “Is that all?”

  Alanna visibly wavered. “That’s all the spell. But you have to have a memento, a token to prove you are good, something to show yourself when you remember t
his night and wonder if it was a dream.”

  From beneath her robe Alanna brought the necklace of clinking rune stones.

  “My cousin has one of those,” Wilda exclaimed. “Is that a sort of Scottish tradition?”

  Ian buried his face in his jacket to stifle his laughter at Alanna’s dismay.

  But she recovered. “It is a tradition, and old witchy’s going to give you one of hers.” Unclasping the chain, Alanna poured the rune stones onto the table in a heap. She stepped behind Wilda and covered Wilda’s eyes with her hands. “Choose.”

  Wilda groped on the tabletop, then buried her hands in the pile. Each square pebble had a different marking, and Wilda hesitated as she fingered the runes.

  “Just choose,” Alanna said in her ear.

  Taking an audible breath, Wilda grabbed.

  Alanna took her hands away. “Let me see.”

  Wilda handed over the stone, then waited, agog, while Alanna examined it.

  A slow smile blossomed on Alanna’s face. “’Tis the hearth stone.” Holding it between both palms, she warmed it with her flesh. “It is the symbol of home, of love, of goodness. It means the spell has already taken effect, young Wilda, and can never be undone.”

  Wilda’s eyes grew round with excitement. “I’m already good?”

  “Aye.” Alanna’s cleared her throat. “You’re already good.”

  Wilda held out her palm.

  Alanna placed the stone within. “Put it on a chain and wear it around your neck.”

  “What if I lose it?”

  “Nothing you can do can break the spell,” Alanna reassured her.

  “Oh, Ian!” Wilda flung herself toward him. “Did you see?”

  “I saw.” Slipping off the stool, he hugged her, then looked at the stone with her. “But then, I never doubted you were good.”

  “That’s because you’re a Fairchild, too, and can’t tell the difference,” Wilda said.

  “Half devil, half beastie, I am,” he conceded softly.

  She hugged the stone to her bosom. “I have to go now.”

  “I’ll walk you back to your chamber,” Ian said.

  “I’m not going back to…that is…I can walk alone.” Wilda edged toward the door, her joyful smile alight. “Go and find Alanna, and have your wedding night. And you, Miss Witch”—Wilda blew her a kiss—“thank you.”

  The door shut behind her, and he turned to Alanna. “Well done, Miss Witch. What does that rune really mean?”

  Alanna chuckled with pure delight. “Exactly what I said.”

  Ian lifted his brows.

  “Home. Hearth.” Alanna shrugged out of her robes. “And in Wilda’s case, it definitely means goodness. If you believe the old tales, by choosing that rune, she guaranteed she would wed before the year is out.”

  “Then I must believe in the old tales.” He propped himself against the fireplace and watched as she took a brush to her hair. “Mrs. Armstrong will come now with a bath and meal for us both.”

  Ash flew, and she coughed. “Thank you, husband.”

  She had a slight tremble in her voice, and he clenched his jaw. She no doubt thought he would not allow her to bathe in peace, but only a sod would attack a woman as besieged with trouble as Alanna.

  But before he could reassure her, Alanna put the brush down and came to him. “Wilda wanted to be good. Dear, sweet Wilda was afraid to marry her love because she thought there was some evil inside her that only magic could wash away.” Wrapping her arms around his waist, she looked up at him. “Can you imagine Wilda thinking that just because she’s a Fairchild, she’s tainted?”

  Painstakingly he hugged Alanna to him, scrutinized her pure, guileless countenance, and thought—Yes, I could imagine that. I can imagine that very easily.

  Chapter 25

  Edwin gave his cravat one last touch, and smiled into the mirror as he smoothed his hand across his perfectly coiffed red hair.

  His luck had begun to change at last. He’d always been the handsome brother. He’d always worn clothes with more dash. Certainly he’d always been more intelligent, although such a thing wasn’t difficult. But he’d been handicapped by poverty, by his position as second to the heir. Now, thanks to his own wits, his dead uncle’s indiscretion, and Mr. Fairchild’s urging, he had wealth and a chance for more.

  So what if he hadn’t snared Fionnaway? Being Fionnaway’s keeper would have been nothing but hard work and responsibility. Alanna’s return had saved him from that, and given him a way to bleed the estate without effort. He knew how seriously Alanna took her duty to that ancient pact, and he would use that knowledge ruthlessly. She’d buckle under the threat of blackmail.

  Of course, he might be only a second son, but even he was too much of a MacLeod to do as Mr. Fairchild wished. No one would mine the seashore, looking for the precious sea opals. Edwin would simply make his demands and know the selkies, and Alanna, dared not disobey. And he relished the power he held. God, how he relished the power.

  This morning perhaps he would stop by Wilda’s door and offer to take her to breakfast. He was, after all, now as great a catch as Brice. Better, for Brice had always sworn to take a wealthy woman of position as his wife, and Edwin had made no such vow.

  Edwin patted the pocket he’d quickly created inside his waistcoat. She’d been watching Brice, flirting with Brice, aye, but with the two sea opals he’d stolen, a woman like Wilda would look on Edwin’s courtship favorably. And Edwin would like to have a wife so beautiful he would be the envy of Scotland.

  Opening the door, Edwin stepped into the corridor. He could hear two voices murmuring, and he halted and stared at the portal just down the hall. That was Brice’s chamber, Brice’s voice, and it sounded like a woman answered him.

  The door swung open, and Edwin quickly moved back into his room, just far enough to take himself out of plain sight. He held his breath as the cape-clad woman stepped into the corridor. He couldn’t see her face, but only one petite woman with flyaway blond hair resided in Fionnaway Manor. And only one woman spoke in that breathless, babbling manner.

  Brice wouldn’t let her speak. He kept cutting her off with kisses and soft chuckles, and finally with a push that sent her hurrying past Edwin.

  She looked so besotted she didn’t even see him.

  Brice, disheveled, smitten, did. He leaned his arm against the doorframe and beamed. “Congratulate me, brother,” he said softly. “At last she has consented to become my wife.”

  “Congratulations,” Edwin said through stiff lips. And he realized—Mr. Fairchild was right. There was more to this than wealth and power. There was vengeance, too.

  Ian kept his hand on Alanna’s waist as they walked toward the dining chamber.

  Last night had been an exercise in restraint. Restraint while Alanna bathed. Restraint after they’d gone to bed and she’d crept into his arms. She’d wanted comfort, nothing else, and he’d given it to her. He’d held her all the night long, repeating—his bed, his manor, his bride. There would be other nights. Thousands of nights. A lifetime of nights for him and for her.

  Now he inhaled the scent of rose soap and Alanna. No woman he knew would dare wear a rough rune-stone necklace with a fashionable chestnut-colored gown. But Alanna could, and did. Her face, her walk, her style, were uniquely her own, and even all those weeks ago, when she had dressed as the witch, he had recognized her confidence and delighted in it.

  Now her confidence was wavering, but he would restore it, for humility did not fit his Alanna at all.

  She stopped short of the door. “Ian.”

  “Aye, lass?” He lived in Scotland now; he would speak like a native.

  “Do you really think you can find the thief?”

  “If we shake the right pocket, we can.” Automatically he touched the place where his ring should be. What a time he had chosen to toss it away! “Don’t worry, Alanna. Whoever has taken the stones will want more, and he’ll make his hand known quite soon.”

  Squeezing his
arm, she nodded. “Aye. You’re right, of course.” Stepping into the dining chamber ahead of him, she smiled and said, “Good morning.” Then she stopped.

  He bumped into her, grabbed her waist to steady her. “What…?”

  Then he saw what she saw. Their families were seated at the dining table, their half-eaten breakfasts before them. Brice was staring at them with concentrated disgust. Edwin kept his eyes on his plate and refused to look up.

  Leslie watched them with a great, malevolent pleasure.

  And Wilda was saying, in as hostile a tone as he’d ever heard from her, “What’s wrong with that? Lots of people are born on the wrong side of the blanket. I mean, it’s not as if it’s Ian’s fault Uncle Leslie slept with Ian’s mother and never had the integrity to marry her.”

  Alanna blundered into the room as if a great hand pushed her, and when Ian hurried to help her, she turned on him and knocked his hands away. “Tell me it’s not true,” she choked.

  “That I’m illegitimate?” He spoke slowly, trying to comprehend why she should exhibit such consternation. “But it is.”

  Her voice rose. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  Wilda’s voice formed a shrill background. “He probably promised all kinds of things. Mama says men will say anything to seduce a woman.”

  Ian tried to remember. “I told you my father had made promises to my mother and not kept them.”

  “I didn’t think you meant he hadn’t married her!”

  Ian stared. Was this virago the same Alanna who had accepted his need to own land and married him in spite of it? Who was willing to put up with Leslie as a father-in-law? “What other promise does a man make to a woman? I thought you understood, but didn’t care.”

  “Didn’t care?” She paced away from him, then paced back. “Why wouldn’t I care?”

  “You easily embraced my…rather odd heritage. My illegitimacy didn’t seem important.”