Must Be Magic (16 page)

Musket lifted, she sighted along the barrel and aimed. This time, she would allow no man to stop her.

Dunstan's furious flight across the pasture stilled Leila's hand. Mad though she might be, she couldn't harm the one man in the whole countryside who had the courage to waylay the drunken lordlings. Even in his unfashionable brown wool, Dunstan was a formidable sight, whipping his brawny arm right and left, lashing the young fools into order. The ribbon of his queue had come undone, and his raven hair streamed behind him.

The hounds rushed howling through the arched gateway, sweeping past Leila's bedraggled skirts. Her hair had fallen down her back in her haste to reach the roses. Could the vandals read her expression, they'd run for their damned lives. She waved her arms and shouted curses, wishing she could turn them all into toads. She imagined magic leaping from her fingertips.

Except she had no magic.

It was Dunstan who deflected first one rider, then another. Had the danger to her garden not paralyzed her thoughts, she would have admired his skill and bravery.

Taking courage from him, she raised the musket over the party's heads, and pulled the trigger. The unorthodox ammunition hailed in stinging bites over hounds, horses, and hunters, fouling the air with a stench of burned bath powder.

If the pellets hit Dunstan, she would apologize later.

Horses screamed in fright. Hounds scampered for the hills. Perfumed smoke curled and choked the air as Dunstan used his crop on another rider who couldn't control his mount, setting the animal off in a different direction. Several of the more drunken hunters fell, landing on the muddy ground with grunts and curses. Leila noted with satisfaction that her nephew was among them.

Her satisfaction lasted only long enough to see a black stallion bearing down on her in complete disregard of the mud or the tender rose canes he trampled. Unlike the other members of the hunting party, this rider appeared to be in complete control of his mount.

Lord John.

Leila's concern had been entirely for her infant plants rather than herself until she registered the young lordling's icy eyes. Trapped in a thicket of thorns, she could not run. Her musket, now empty of ammunition, was useless as anything but a cudgel. Heart pounding in sudden fear, she raised the barrel and prayed she could beat off a ton of galloping horseflesh.

She didn't have to.

Dunstan streaked across the trampled bed to intercept horse and rider. Leila shut her eyes tight in anticipation of the imminent collision. A horse shrieked, a man shouted, and she was abruptly airborne.

Clutching the solid arm wrapped about her waist, she opened her eyes to see the grass flying by beneath her. She was out of the briars. At Dunstan's grim expression as he reined in his mount, she thought perhaps she was in the soup instead.

Leila clung to his coat sleeve, refusing to be let down until Dunstan slid off the horse with her. She didn't want to release him. She'd not thought herself frail until he held her so effortlessly, and now she didn't want to be parted from his strength. She would have been crushed by all that horseflesh if Lord John had had his way.

She glanced at the garden and trembled in rage and grief.

Her rosebuds! Falling to her knees on the edge of a bed of new reddish-green leaves, she hastily checked the canes. With a cry of hope, she located first one unfurling flower, then another. She scanned the beds that Dunstan had planted in meticulous circles, the arching rose stems that would cover the garden in heavy fragrance and glorious color in less than a month. They were still almost entirely intact.

She gulped back sobs, yet tears of relief rolled down her cheeks.

“You saved my roses!” Weak with gratitude, Leila flung her arm around the powerful leg of the man standing protectively over her.

He reached down to help her up. Fighting tears and steadying her shaking knees, she fell into Dunstan's comforting embrace. Absorbing his surprising tenderness, Leila was slow to realize his attention had strayed to the shouting, cursing men who were picking themselves up out of the mud.

She dug her fingers into his solid arm and dared a glance back at her once beautiful garden. The vandals had uprooted tender seedlings, trampled neatly tilled furrows, and wrecked the pergola and paths. But Dunstan's reckless action had saved the roses.

When she looked across the field, her heart froze as she realized that the cost of her stupidity was far higher than a few flowers.

Staines, Wickham, Lord John, and several stragglers were coming toward them, their furious gazes fixed on Dunstan. She knew she didn't possess the physical strength or the authority to save Dunstan as he'd saved her.

He knew it too. He stiffened, but no expression reached his eyes.

“He's a murderer, Leila!” her nephew shouted. “This is what comes of harboring a murderer. We could all have been killed.”

Leila could feel Dunstan's explosive tension beneath her fingers, but he didn't strike out as another man might have. He was twice her nephew's size and could have broken him in two. Right now, her fury was such that she wished Dunstan
would
break the brat. But he didn't lift a hand to defend himself.

“I want you off my land,” Staines ranted. “You have twenty-four hours to pack and leave.”

“I work for the lady,” Dunstan answered coldly. “You are not in a position to tell me what to do.”

“He's in a position to have you charged with assault and locked up until assizes are called,” Wickham shouted. “I can bring charges, if I wish. Everyone knows you killed my brother.”

“George was stealing my horses,” Dunstan said. “No court of law will condemn me for giving him the chance to defend himself.”

George Wickham had also stolen Dunstan's wife, but neither man mentioned that fact, Leila noted as she watched the scene unfold. Nor did they mention that Lord John could have maimed her in his malicious dash across the garden. Staines, possibly at the behest of his grandfather, meant to drive her away, regardless of the consequences.

Driving Dunstan away would accomplish that.

“You killed George and you killed your wife,” Wickham shouted, as if Dunstan had said nothing. “And now you have nearly injured Staines. They should lock you away for the safety of society.”

While Wickham spoke, Lord John smugly studied Leila in her torn gown, loose hair, and muddied face. Then, with a triumphant smile, he swung on his heel and walked away, satisfied that he'd had his revenge.

Leila watched Dunstan's fingers clenching in helpless fists as he stood there, defenseless against their foolish threats. He'd ridden into battle to defend her like a knight in shining armor, but the guilt festering inside him stripped away the bright armor, leaving a man wounded to the depth of his being.

Somehow, she had to free this valiant knight from his demons.

Turning on her nephew, Leila waved her musket at him. “You are no longer welcome in my home,” she shouted, pleased to see him flinch at the reminder that the house and grounds still belonged to her. “You and your wretched friends may play your games elsewhere. I'll have the servants pack your bags and heave them into the drive. Should you ever show your faces here again, I'll call the magistrate and hire men to cast you bodily into the street.”

“
He's
the cause of this!” Staines shouted back, pointing at Dunstan. “Wickham told me what he did to his wife. You can't consort with criminals, Leila! My grandfather will order him arrested.”

“Your grandfather isn't here. Leave, before I call in the magistrate.”

Furious, the young viscount stomped after Lord John and Wickham.

“My turnips are already planted,” Dunstan said flatly as the young lordlings sought their animals. “I cannot leave.”

Leila punched the powerful arm that had supported her. “You'd better worry about your head instead of your damned turnips. His grandfather is an earl who can influence the magistrate with just a letter.”

She could save his turnips. But she wasn't a witch or a miracle worker. He had to save himself.

The odor of Dunstan's fury was fresh and bracing and far stronger than Wickham's bitterness or Lord John's cruelty. She knew that by working together, they could resolve this crisis.

And she also knew that working with Dunstan Ives could be a danger to her heart and soul.

Remembering his courageous action when no one else had come to her aid, Leila was willing to take that risk.

Taking Leila up on the back of his old gelding, Dunstan wrapped her in his arms as if she belonged there. He wanted the right to shelter this spirited woman forever, protecting her from the world's iniquities.

And he wanted to console himself in the process, he acknowledged.

Not understanding why he felt compelled to protect a woman who possessed far more power than he ever would, he was silenced by confusion.

In his arms she felt slender and defenseless.

She was a Malcolm, he reminded himself, and anything but defenseless. She tilted her chin defiantly, as if she were prepared to take on an army. Dunstan relied on her good sense not to plot anything foolish. The idea of what a Malcolm might do in retaliation gave him cold shivers.

She didn't protest when he delivered her to her door. “I need to speak with you tonight, after I remove these leeches,” she told him with her accustomed authority, although her wording revealed a hint of vulnerability.

He hesitated. For the good of all, he needed to pack his bags and leave.

As if understanding his intention, Leila continued before he could reject her plea. “I learned something important today. I'll wear sackcloth and ashes if I must. I promise not to manipulate, seduce, or whatever else you expect of me, but I must talk with you.”

He didn't tell her that he wanted to see her so much that he feared himself and not her. Speaking to the butler who appeared behind her, reassuring himself that her loyal staff would take care of her and follow her orders to bar the gentlemen, Dunstan turned to find Leila watching him with eyes shimmering with hope and trust.

She trusted him—a man whom all London despised.

He couldn't disappoint the one woman who believed in him.

Dunstan set his jaw, nodded curtly, and departed. He had the sinking feeling he'd just committed his fate to forces beyond his control.

At home, he ignored Griffith's questions, changed from his muddy clothes, silently shared the supper Martha had left, and cogitated on the enormity of his problem.

He could lose his crop as easily as Leila had almost lost hers.

He didn't waste time questioning the injustice that gave power to spoiled brats. Instead, he applied his formidable thought processes to the dilemma of saving both his experimental plants and his hide, while also protecting Leila's interests.

Dunstan remained confident of his ability to turn the lady's estate into a viable, profitable farm that would feed and clothe an entire village while keeping her nephew in silk coats. But he'd been arrogant in thinking that he could ignore society. Pride came before a fall, and there was his stumbling block.

He couldn't ignore the society he despised, and that despised and feared him in return. They would crucify him. Leila was part of that society. Because of him, they might crucify her as well.

He forced aside a rising panic and proceeded logically, one fact at a time.

A man was only as good as his reputation. It wasn't enough to have a gift for growing things. Stoically, he faced that sorry fact as he had not done before. He'd counted on men recognizing his abilities, but how many would see beyond scandal to his unfashionable achievements? In the eyes of the world, he was a man who had murdered his wife and nothing else.

Had he any true urge to kill, he would certainly have done so today when that nasty bit of venom had threatened Leila. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine killing Celia, despite her treachery. He was a grower and a nurturer, not a murderer. He didn't even own a sword, much less a pistol.

But the world had no reason to believe him if he couldn't believe in himself.

While seeing Griffith into bed, banking the fires, and trimming the candlewicks, Dunstan followed the logical progression of that realization. It led directly to Lady Leila.

He couldn't reject her summons this time. He had to tell her his reasons for leaving.

It took no more thought than that to lead him into the warm evening air where insects hummed, night birds called, and his horse nickered in anticipation.

All his senses quickening, he fed the horse a handful of oats, bridled him, and in too much haste for a saddle, mounted and rode to the manor.

He tied his reins to a low tree branch and, not wanting to disturb the household or taint the lady's reputation, took a pathway behind the house to just below Leila's balcony. A candle burned somewhere deep within the room.

Testing a thick rope of ivy, Dunstan pulled himself upward, finding footholds in the uneven stone to support his weight.

No draperies concealed the view through the balcony door as he swung his leg over the railing. A candle flickering on a bedside table illuminated Leila curled upon the turned-back covers, her hair spread across the pillows as if she'd fallen asleep waiting for him. Trying the French door and finding it unlocked, Dunstan watched her turn on her back as he entered. Her blue velvet dressing robe fell open to reveal the gossamer glimmer of her nightshift.

Thinking that she had awakened, he approached the tester bed, but Leila tossed restlessly. He wondered if she dreamed of him as he often did of her.

More arrogance for him to think so.

Tension coiled as he debated leaving without speaking to her.

Uncertain whether he could resist the tentative strands binding them, he hated to wake her.

He rubbed his hand over his face in frustration and caught a glimpse of bare leg in the flickering light. The lady had beautiful limbs, and curves a man would die to touch.

As a young man, he'd been infatuated with Celia's beauty, but what he felt now was far beyond such a small thing as infatuation. Crossing his arms and leaning against the bedpost, Dunstan gazed upon a woman who had courageously held off a tribe of drunken lordlings, a woman who believed in herself enough to dare hire a man with his black reputation, a woman wise enough to believe in him without question.

A woman who had offered her body and herself without expecting anything in return—not wealth or title or even a declaration of affection.

Leila stirred again, one leg pushing at the covers, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight. Her robe formed a velvet backdrop to rich curves revealed by the sheer gown. Even a saint wouldn't have been able to resist, and Dunstan knew he was no saint.

He sat on the bed's edge and inched her gown higher, caressing a shapely calf to wake her. She merely shifted position so that her toes crept across his knees.

He'd had years of practice in self-control, but this woman defied his ability to maintain it.

Lifting her bare foot, Dunstan kissed her toes, touching them with his tongue. Even the bottoms of her feet smelled of roses, and he gave in to the temptation to suck on a pink delicacy. She moaned and arched her hips.

Enthralled, Dunstan tasted her ankles, ran his fingers up her calf, and slid her gown higher to see if he could elicit further response. The idea that a lady as sophisticated and beautiful as this one might succumb to a rustic like him appealed to his baser instincts far more than he cared to examine.

To his utter delight, she moaned again, muttering something in her sleep. Her hands lifted and dropped helplessly against the covers.

He wanted her to dream of him.

No longer hesitating, Dunstan slid her gown upward, uncovering the perfect curve of ivory hips, flat stomach, and rich midnight curls begging for his caress. The tightening in his groin warned of the danger of this game he played, but after she'd won the round in the cave, he deserved this sweet revenge.

He touched her where she was moist and ready and paused to see if he'd woken her yet. Her eyelids remained closed and still, but her breasts rose and fell at an increased pace.

With a smile of satisfaction, Dunstan dipped his head to taste the honey. He would wake her now.

***

Dreaming of rippling water and velvet air caressing her breasts, Leila dug her fingers into the sheets and shivered with arousal. The scent of fresh grass and hot sex returned her to the grotto, where she flew wild and free over the water, knowing Dunstan lurked in the shadows. She could feel the cool, moist air, the heat of desire, and she wanted him desperately—

Heated lips tugged between her parted legs, and she cried out as her body bucked in anticipation.

The dream of the cave receding, Leila awakened with a cry of protest at the unknown invader, but the fire heating her blood urged mindless surrender. The devil had a firm grip, and his tempting tongue had already led her body to the precipice. She quaked and shuddered as he pressed deeper, demanding total capitulation. Without her will, her hips arched to accept it.

The heat dissipated, leaving her hungry for completion. The loss awoke her enough to associate the scent of new-mown grass with the dastardly man lifting his dark eyes to meet hers. The sight of his rugged cheekbones and thick black hair aroused her even more. Bending over and bracing himself on one elbow, Dunstan suckled her breast, sapping any token protest. Before she could recover, his knowing fingers sought and stroked, then opened and invaded, driving all thought from her mind.

Choking back moans, Leila surrendered to waves of pleasure. Her hips drove upward, demanding more, and when he obliged, using mouth as well as fingers, she shattered into a thousand multicolored pieces. He'd overpowered her will, her body, her senses, possessed her in some manner she couldn't comprehend, without losing a particle of himself in the process. He was still fully dressed.

She had no strength left with which to fight when he finally lay down beside her, a possessive hand cupping her breast.

“I'll be leaving for London as soon as I can find help to oversee your gardens,” he announced.

“Even if he is the heir, Staines is no longer welcome on this land, so long as I live,” she murmured in protest. “I've had their baggage thrown out and ordered the servants to bar the doors against them.” Her body still ached, and this disturbing man beside her was responsible. He couldn't leave now that she'd cleared the way for him to stay.

“That isn't the solution. They'll throw slanderous charges at me, and he and his grandfather will find ways to punish you.”

Surely he couldn't be as calm as he sounded. Leila reached for the broad expanse of shirt looming over her, undid the ties, and reveled in the sharp intake of his breath. So, he wasn't as entirely in command as he pretended.

“They tried to destroy me.” Her voice cracked slightly. “They tore up my laboratory, damaged my flower beds, and would have done worse had you not arrived. I could not let them go unpunished.”

“Your laboratory?”

Soothingly, Dunstan kissed her forehead and smoothed back her hair, and Leila fought back tears at his tenderness. She wanted to be angry, to fight and throw things, but she was new to these emotions, and his concern weakened her. Defiantly, she slid her hands beneath the shirt she'd opened, shoved it from his shoulders, and rubbed the hard swells of his bronzed chest, basking in his shudder of desire.

She didn't want to think about the months of work lying on her laboratory floor or of the seedlings trampled into mud. She definitely didn't want to think about how she had failed as a Malcolm, failed her family and herself.

“Why would Staines destroy your laboratory?” he demanded when she rearranged her position to brush his stockinged leg with her bare toes.

“Staines didn't do it,” she murmured against his shoulder, disappointed that he didn't accept her invitation. “He's merely a child who thought all would go his way because he wished it so. He wants me to marry Wickham or Lord John and leave him alone to play in his sandbox.”

At the mention of that hated name, Dunstan tensed. “Did Wickham hurt you?”

Leila's ebony curls brushed his chin as she shook her head. “Lord John. That's what I wanted to tell you. We were in the laboratory, and I had an extraordinary vision of him as a spoiled young man casting aside a pregnant maidservant. It caught me by surprise, and I spilled a few drops of scent on him. We exchanged words, and he struck out wildly, destroying my things. I chased him off easily enough. But I need to see if I was hallucinating or if I can make the vision come again.”

Steeling himself against his baser urges, Dunstan brushed kisses across Leila's head, soothing her confusion and unhappiness, while seeking that place in his mind where logic rather than impulse dwelled. She didn't need his anger at a time like this.

“What kind of scent?” he asked when she curled against his shoulder.

She chuckled, and Dunstan relaxed his guard. If she wasn't weeping, he could handle this talking business. He couldn't remember ever carrying on a conversation with a nearly naked woman while lying in bed, but he could come to enjoy it.

“I created a wicked scent just for him. I used camphor and myrrh, and he didn't even notice that he reeked of toadstools.”

In the back of Dunstan's mind, a warning bell clamored. This was no ordinary female he held. This was a sophisticated, knowledgeable woman of unusual insight whose family could topple governments with the sheer weight of their wealth and power. If they chose to use their unnatural gifts as well, who knew what they could accomplish?

“You created the scent just for Lord John?”

Leila kissed a sensitive place behind his ear, and it took every ounce of Dunstan's strength to stay with the conversation. She licked his ear, shooting a prickly path of desire clear to his groin.

So much for her promise not to seduce, although to be fair, he'd started this game. How could one carry on a rational discussion with a woman draped in velvet and little more?

“That's what I do, create scents,” she answered matter-of-factly. “It's the reason I want a garden. I have a nose for fragrances that suit people.”

More
likely, she has a nose for trouble.
Dunstan's hand strayed to caress the globe of her breast, but the warning bells clamored louder, and he focused upon her words. “Suit people?” he asked.