Must Be Magic (10 page)

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.

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'd tempt 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
. 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 leaped 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 heart'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.

Enough soaks in here, and he might scrub out all the tension and anguish of the past few years, even if he couldn't scrub away the memories. Perhaps he could bottle this water. He would send a vial to his brothers for further study. The minerals might have some beneficial effect, like those in Bath were said to possess. In fact, this might be a related spring.

He grasped for rationality rather than thinking of the woman splashing naked and free somewhere in the pool beside him. In here, she was a nameless, faceless female, with no confusing eyes or hair color to distract him. Her name no longer mattered.

Standing again, Dunstan raked his dripping hair back from his face. Refreshed and invigorated, he glanced around the mossy chamber with interest, feeling more in control.

Moonlight poured through the opening above. A silver glow illuminated the dangling greenery, and he thought he detected tiny white flowers like little stars peeking through the moss on the walls.

Dunstan searched the darkness for the sorceress who'd brought him here. “Lily?”

“I think I could live in here,” she called softly, much closer than before.

A flash of white and green swung by, and he stepped backward in surprise.

Laughter trilled out of the darkness, and the ghostly form swept by again. This time, he recognized the apparatus, and his eyes widened, studying the dangling vines. Someone had hung a swing from the roof.

In the silvery light, he traced the vine-covered rope until it disappeared into the gloom over his head. It couldn't be safe. He transferred his gaze back to the specter in white flitting back and forth on the swing. Lily, of course. Brazen woman.

The wet gauze of her chemise trailed behind her as she swung. The breeze from her movement plastered it like a transparent skin to her body. Already drying, her black curls spilled in tendrils down her back and over the water when she leaned back to pump the swing higher.

Dunstan tumbled through some hole in time to his youth, where all things were possible and each day presented one miracle after another for his pleasure. He could smell the grass he'd rolled in, feel the potency of adolescence. Years of cynicism dropped away, leaving him buoyant as he waded through the pool to her ridiculous swing.

She laughed in delight when he caught the ropes and brought her to a halt. She didn't fear him as others did, and that alone lightened his burden. She trusted him.

She saw beyond his reputation and trusted what she saw. He could feel the realization cracking the rock-solid barrier he'd erected in self-defense against the cruelties of society. He'd never fully comprehended how much unswerving trust could mean.

Holding the rope, Dunstan looked down into eyes of dancing mischief almost hidden behind a curtain of thick black lashes. The steam had turned her cheeks rosy, and her full lips glistened temptingly. He only meant to thank her, to push her swing as one would play with a child.

Except she wasn't a child.

With the scent of burgeoning spring rising between them, Dunstan bent and cautiously placed his mouth across hers, prepared to retreat at the first sign of protest.

Lightning struck and fire scorched his bones at her passionate response. The heat rising through his bare limbs was no longer derived from water. Full lips melted to lush invitation, and Dunstan released the rope to clasp female curves perfectly fitted to his wide hands. His fingers reveled in the touch of heated silk.

She didn't shove him away.

Hundreds of lonely nights dissolved with the sigh of her desire. He could no more resist that sigh than the sun could resist rising in the morn.

She moaned beneath the insistent slant of his mouth and opened to the command of his tongue. He dived deeper, exploring the taste of honey, wrapped in the intoxicating scent of wine and roses. He could do this without losing control. They didn't have to go beyond kisses. He held her trapped and clinging to the ropes. He could stop at any time, he told himself, and no one the wiser. He just wanted one more little taste…