Must Be Magic (12 page)

Would he come to her bed?

She was wide awake and hungering for what she couldn't have.

Spinning on her slippered heel, she paced the spacious room her husband had had decorated for her. She had just experienced more life in a mossy cave than she'd ever known between these gilded walls.

She longed to experience more—craved it.

Perhaps she could don her peasant clothes and entice Dunstan back to the cave again.

Perhaps she could slip into his house, tempt him with wine and perfume, and they wouldn't go any farther than his bed. She would set candles burning all around so she could see all of him.

She almost set out in search of a box of candles before she stopped herself. She wasn't thinking. She was behaving like a bitch in heat.

Dunstan Ives would not lightly take a Malcolm for a mistress. Yet why, by all that was holy, couldn't he be like every other man in society and just accept what she offered without considering the consequences?

How could she survive without taking his body into hers again? Cupping her breasts through the silk of her nightdress, she tried to arouse the sensations he had taught her, but she needed the fiery heat of his breath, the musky smell of his skin, the brush of his thick hair. She needed
him.

“Once wasn't enough, my lady?” a masculine voice inquired from the window.

Gasping, Leila swung around.

Dunstan sat on her windowsill, arms crossed, booted legs sprawled in front of him. Bareheaded, with his silky hair drawn back in a dark ribbon, he could have been a highwayman off the road. But he carried an air of authority and power that no common thief could ever match.

She wouldn't waste her breath asking how he got there. He was an Ives. They were all in league with the devil. He probably snapped his fingers and flew.

She refused to fear him, but she hoped to placate him. She needed him too desperately, in too many ways, not to try.

“Odd, how prejudice can blind us to the obvious,” she answered, then inwardly winced. Well, that certainly wouldn't smooth his ruffled feathers. Where were all her social skills when she needed them? Turning away, she picked up a brush and bent to pull it through her hair.

In the resulting silence, the tension between them rose to an unbearable degree.

When she looked up again, Dunstan's broad form filled her full-length mirror. She admired the quality of the lace on his jabot rather than wonder what he might do with his hands.

“Your hair is supposed to be blond like your sisters' and your cousins'.” Without permission, he took the brush from her and began plying it to her tangled curls.

“I am the only black-haired Malcolm. Anyone in London could have told you that.”

“You deceived me. Why?” His hands in her hair were gentle. His voice was not.

“It was not intentional, I assure you. I simply let you think as you pleased.” Leila closed her eyes and luxuriated in the sensual pull of the brush in her hair. She could smell him so vividly that she could see him in the cave again in all his glory.

“I suppose I deserved that. I'll try not to be so blind next time,” he said.

“It's about time you opened your eyes to many truths. I'm not any of the things you think me. Most of all, I'm not Celia. It's bigotry and prejudice to lump all women into the same shallow mold.”

“You deny you manipulated me? Isn't that what women do best?” Dunstan threw the brush on her dresser, pulled her hair behind her, and ran his hand beneath the loose fabric of her neckline. Heat enveloped Leila's bare breast, desire pooled deep beneath her belly, and she almost moaned as he caressed her nipple into an aching peak.

He bent his head down to her, and she arched her neck to accept his kiss. His mouth seared hers, spreading liquid heat through her limbs, while her hand instinctively reached to comb through his hair. The demanding invasion of his tongue weakened her knees, and hope pounded in her heart. Perhaps he had forgiven—

He stepped back, leaving her cold.

She stood still, praying for his touch, yet fearing his words.

“You're an incredibly responsive woman,” he said thoughtfully, watching her in the mirror. “Any man would pay well for what you offer so freely.”

She wanted to slap him, but he let a handful of her hair slip through his fingers, and she stood frozen, fascinated, waiting to see what he would do next. “I've known only one man before you,” she finally said. “Don't you think I deserve an opportunity to learn more?”

“Not at my expense and without my consent. You have no understanding of what you have done by involving me. I doubt that either of us can afford to act on our desires.”

He stood behind her so she couldn't tell the extent of his arousal, though the passion between them was too potent to ignore. The scent of him filled her head, and she could
feel
him inside her in some primitive manner she couldn't define. Not physically, but the person he was: the lonely man, the arrogant intellect, the commanding presence.

She stepped backward, but he merely caught her arms in a powerful grip and forced her to look in the mirror. At them. They were both tall, black-haired creatures, she thought wildly. She had cultivated the expressionless features of vapid beauty. His chiseled face was an impenetrable mask by nature.

“I didn't hear you saying no earlier.” Her voice shook, and she closed her eyes again so she didn't have to see what he was doing to her.

“You hear me saying no now,” he replied softly. “I cannot afford to dally with Lady Leila any more than I can afford Lily. What we did tonight was a mistake. You ask too much of me.”

“You are being unreason—”

Relentlessly, his deep voice continued, murmuring against her ear. “I suggest that you decide which you most want planted, your roses or yourself. Leave me be, Leila.”

He abruptly stepped away. Stumbling, she struggled to recover her equilibrium, but Dunstan had already crossed the room to the window.

If she had a temper, she'd fling everything within reach at the wretched man who was now lifting his booted foot over the sill.

Instead, she collapsed onto the carpet, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking back and forth in an agony of unrequited desire while the wicked wretch disappeared into the night.

Attempting to wash before dawn the next morning, Dunstan inhaled the scent of sweet grass, felt his body tighten with longing, and flung the cake of soap across the room with a force that dented the wainscoting. The
witch.
Even the soap raised visions of last night's ecstasy—an ecstasy he dared not repeat. Denial was much harder now that he knew what he denied.

He breathed deeply, attempting to control his towering temper, but the lady had dug her claws into his soul, and he couldn't pry her loose.

Damnation, but she'd tasted of lavender and honey and fitted his rough hands as if she belonged there. Creamier and more tender than silk, her flesh had branded his palms so he could feel naught else. A
lady.
Not a common wench. A
Malcolm.
Not a laughing maidservant.

Why
him
? She may as well have made a pact with the devil.

He gripped the rough windowsill and watched a distant curl of smoke rise against the dawn sky. He hadn't slept a wink all night. He never should have kissed her. He was a condemned man.

Well, that wasn't anything new.

With that wry realization, he straightened. The witch might as well have his soul, since he was damned to hell already.

She would turn him to putty if he let her. He'd already compromised his turnips by helping her with the gardens when he should have been persuading her to give them up—or to marry.

Yet he couldn't ask her to do either.

His brothers might jeer at his superstition, but Dunstan fully accepted that Malcolms were witches. He had his hands in the earth every day and knew that the powers of nature were far beyond his comprehension. Call the Malcolms forces of nature instead of witches, perhaps, but he couldn't command a Malcolm female any more than he could direct the sun or the rain.

He would rather trust the devious lady than her addlepated young nephew. At least he and Leila had similar goals in mind, odd as that might be.

Stomping down the stairs to the kitchen, Dunstan vowed to avoid women from this day forth.

Grimacing, he stirred the banked fire in the stove and pumped water to fill a pot.

“I have a proposition for you.”

The female voice emerged from the shadows.

Startled, Dunstan nearly dropped the kettle. He glanced around for the source of the voice and discovered Leila's black-and-white cat curled on the pillow of his cook's chair. Even witches couldn't make cats talk.

A waft of heavenly roses surrounded him. Leila.

She was inside his
head.

No, he couldn't believe that. He was bigger and stronger and in control here. She was simply a calculating wisp of female.

Cautiously, he searched the dim corners of the lofty room.

A teacup rose to the pale ghost of her face against the backdrop of a still-dark windowpane. Clenching his teeth, Dunstan stepped deeper into the kitchen. He really needed to start carrying candles with him.

Sitting on the windowsill, she wore black gloves against the morning chill and a black velvet cloak that enveloped her in night. Her inky curls spilled down her back, unbound and unveiled. No longer denying what his senses told him, he fully recognized the lady as the wench.

“How long have you been here?” he demanded, finding the teapot still warm. He poured a splash of tea into a cup and gulped the soothing liquid.

“Long enough to let the fire dwindle. I don't sleep much.”

He heard the shrug in her voice, wanted to believe the lonely vulnerability behind it, but couldn't. “I assumed witches slept in the daylight.”

“I'm not a witch.”

This time, her sadness penetrated his defenses as surely as her perfume permeated the air. He tamped down his sympathy, reluctant to let her beneath his skin again. “Fine, you're not a witch. You're a woman. That's bad enough.”

A wry laugh escaped her as she extended her cup for a refill. “Being a woman is terrible, I agree. How would you like being no more than a pet to be cuddled or cast aside on a whim? Treated as if you hadn't a thought in your head? It's a credit to our gender that we do not all rise up some frosty morn and slit the throats of the men around us.”

Devil take it, she was doing it again, crawling inside his mind and making him like her. The woman was as dangerous as he'd feared. “What do you want?” he asked curtly, deciding it would be safer to remove her from his kitchen as swiftly as possible.

“As I said, I've come to offer you a proposition. I do not own my land outright, so I cannot deed you the acreage you need for your experiments. But if you will work with me, I can offer you something better.”

Dunstan froze. He didn't think he wanted to hear her offer, but he didn't have much choice unless he bodily heaved her out. And if he touched her, he doubted he'd have the strength to let her go.

Taking his silence for permission to continue, Leila did so. “I can offer to clear your name.”

He waited. What she offered was so far beyond the realm of possibility that he figured there must be more to it. Even
he
didn't know if he was innocent. His investigator had sent notes reporting little progress. He saw no point in telling her he was already doing all that could be done.

Impatient with his silence, she set down the cup. “If we clear your name, you can take a position anywhere. You can work with some of the best agricultural experts in the country, earn a respectable reputation, buy your own land. Isn't that what you want?”

More than life itself, but he wouldn't admit it. He had pride and an aristocratic name, and he was supposed to be above caring what the world thought. He refused to reveal the weakness in him that craved respect and recognition, and the driving need to make a difference in the world. He
knew
he could improve living conditions for farmers, but he wouldn't beg for the opportunity to do so.

“And what would I have to do so you would consent to wave your magic wand and create miracles?” he asked.

“You needn't be sarcastic.” She hopped down from the window ledge and paced the tiled floor, her petticoats rustling. “I need your cooperation with the gardens and with handling my nephew. I cannot do it alone, and I don't want you siding with Staines and his cohorts simply because they're men and I'm not. I need your knowledge and experience and the chance to develop new flower strains. All my life I've been denied the opportunity to develop my talents, and I won't wait any longer.”

Dunstan closed his eyes and heard her words echoing his own. He felt her hunger for knowledge as surely as he felt his. Worse, he understood her unspoken need for recognition of those talents. The lady wanted what he wanted.

“I can't help you,” he said flatly, grinding out any foolish desire to dream. Until he was sure he hadn't killed Celia, he had to carry on alone. He had the blood of one man on his hands. The thought of having Celia's—it was beyond bearing. Nor would he risk endangering others.

Developing new flower varieties would take time he might not have, should proof be found that he'd caused his wife's death. In pursuing his investigation, Dunstan was acutely aware that he might bring about his own doom.

Leila swung around, and even through the shadows he could see the flare of ire in her eyes. “Can't accept my help, or won't?” she demanded.

“Both.” He rose and removed the boiling water from the stove, pouring it over the coffee he'd ground. “You'd fare far better if you went back to London where you belong.”

“I could easily hate you,” she whispered. “I despise ignorance and prejudice, and you are guilty of both if you think me powerless. I
can
clear your name.”

“Even if I am guilty?” He didn't turn to see how she took that idea.

“You're not,” she replied. “I'd know if you were.”

If she only knew how much he needed to believe that… He shook his head in refusal.

“I know we think differently,” she said with an edge of desperation. “But can we not respect those differences and join our talents to make us stronger?”

Differences? They were too blamed alike in some ways, or he'd not hear her loneliness echoing inside his head. He refused to harm her any more than he already had by his presence. What were the chances of making an interfering Malcolm understand that? “Try respecting
my
wishes and leave me be,” he replied.

Pouring his coffee, Dunstan felt a fresh rush of air caused by the lady's angry departure. He raised his eyebrow at the purring cat she'd left behind. The feline merely licked its paws.

“I don't suppose you were a man before she cast a spell on you?” he inquired aloud, needing to hear the sound of a voice in the silence she left behind.

The cat yawned, stretched, and leaped from its perch to the windowsill, turning expectantly and swishing its tail.

***

“Leila—Lily—dear one, where are you?” a high-pitched soprano sang gaily. “I am here to help. Tell me all!”

Smiling at her mother's airy assumption that she could solve the problems of the world when she could barely keep her buttons fastened and her scarves about her, Leila rose from where she was planting seedlings. Hermione fluttered down the hillside, her hat askew and her skirts billowing. As a child, Leila had firmly believed her mother could trail dust in a rainstorm.

Now that her nephew and his companions had departed to chase heiresses in Bath, Leila felt safe enough to dress for comfort. Shaking out her worn gardening skirt, she strolled up the hill more sedately than her parent came down it.

She should have known one of her elders would arrive as soon as Christina and Felicity returned home. It had been weeks since they'd left—and since she'd last seen Dunstan anywhere except in the fields.

The dratted man was avoiding her. She knew he was out there doing his duty, for the staff of gardeners had multiplied and activity in the fields around her had increased daily. She feared that if she intervened, he would pack up and she would never see him again.

Leaving him alone was proving to be the most difficult thing she'd ever done in her life. She was accustomed to going after what she wanted, and she wanted Dunstan Ives. She needed to hear his voice, needed the reassurance of his presence, needed much more than was good for her.

Her feelings for him terrified her far more than she could ever admit. How did people live with these rampaging emotions beating against the walls of their hearts?

“
Maman
, how are you?”

“Harried, dear girl, absolutely harried!” Her mother hugged her. “I don't know why one of you couldn't have a talent for dressmaking. It's all so confusing. I'm sure I don't know which gowns to choose, and the modistes insist we need them all—even the bilious green one.”

“The bilious green modiste?” Leila asked with laughter.

Ignoring her daughter, Hermione glanced at the flower garden. “Very pretty, dear, but there's not enough, is there?”

Catching her mother's shoulders, Leila steered her toward the house. She loved her careless, scatterbrained parent. Hermione had a generous heart and a gentle soul. She simply didn't have a lot of brains. Or normally functioning ones, anyway.

“I have to start somewhere,
Maman.
How are the girls? I take it they are arguing over the modiste's recommendations?''

“Christina is quite impossible!” Hermione wailed. “She says it's an extravagant waste of time and money to clothe her since she's already betrothed. Instead, she's been frequenting gambling hells and coffee shops. I vow, I almost had failure of the heart when that Ives boy brought her home wearing breeches.”

“I certainly hope the boy was wearing breeches,
Maman
.” Leila tried not to hear what her mother was saying. It could very well be the prelude to a plea for her to come home, and that she was determined not to do, despite her homesickness.

“Do not be difficult, dear. You know what I mean. Christina was wearing breeches, and the Ives boy had to drag her home where she belonged.”

“Which Ives boy,
Maman
? There are so many.”

Hermione waved a frail hand. “I don't know. One of the curly-haired ones, the bastards. Very polite-spoken, I must say. Ninian is having an influence. But that's not what I'm here for. Where is that other wretch, the big, fearsome one? I want a word with him.”

Oh, dear, she was in for it now. She couldn't let her mother loose on Dunstan. It was a pure miracle that the marchioness was so thoroughly distracted by her younger daughters' Seasons that she hadn't noticed Leila's flush at the mere mention of Dunstan's name. Malcolms always sensed sexual involvement, or imagined it around every corner.

“If you mean Dunstan, I daresay he's draining a fen or moving a pond or building a fence somewhere,” Leila declared. “Shall we have some tea while you tell me everything that is happening in town?”

“No, no, I haven't time, dear.” For a small woman, Hermione was strong—and determined. She strode directly toward the carriage waiting in the drive. “Take me to him.”

“
Maman
, I don't know where he is,” she protested. “He is a busy man. Come in and visit, and we can send someone to look for him.”

Hermione tugged a flying scarf into place and fixed Leila with her sharp blue gaze. “I know you would not willingly attach scandal to our name and ruin your sisters' Seasons, but I cannot trust an Ives. If you insist upon associating with a suspected murderer, I must know he's truly innocent.”

“Aunt Stella has a hand in this, does she not?” Leila asked with resignation. Her duchess aunt had a way of knowing about matters in which she had no right to interfere. There would be no arguing with her mother once Aunt Stella became involved.

Leila glanced down at her dirty blue skirt and couldn't help imagining Dunstan's expression when she showed up dressed like this with her mother in tow. She rather thought her flighty mother terrified logical Ives men as much as the reverse.