Must Be Magic (28 page)

Black skirt sweeping the carpet of the parlor she'd requisitioned, Leila rubbed her forehead. She'd been awake far too long.

She would never sleep again.

She didn't bother looking up as young Joseph entered. She hoped Ewen was keeping an eye on Griffith. She might as well learn to accept the presence of Ives men in her life. At some other time, she might even enjoy their support.

“What are they doing now?” she demanded.

“Wickham's gloating,” Joseph reported, having just returned from the tavern. “He and Lord John and Sir Barton are playing cards, and Wickham's losing. I don't know where he's come into money from. He's a lousy gambler.”

“So is Staines,” Leila said. It didn't take a witch to add two and two and see these rogues gaining her nephew's wealth over a gaming table, pressuring him to marry Lady Mary in exchange for his debts. She simply didn't understand what that had to do with Dunstan or Celia. How did one go about finding a killer?

The vial of perfume in her pocket grew warm between her fingers.

“Where
is
the little lordling?” Joseph asked. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”

“If he has any sense at all, he'll be halfway back to Bath by now,” Christina answered. “Leila left him with a flea in his ear.”

Not that it mattered much. Ewen had told them about Wickham and the jewels. Had Staines left for the country before or after Wickham had retrieved Celia's gems?

“Wickham has talked the constable into sending for a London magistrate,” Joseph informed them gloomily. “They're waiting for his arrival.”

Leila fought back a wave of nausea. Fingering the vial, she decided it was now or never. She had to believe she could use her gift to save Dunstan. She simply didn't know how to make it work.

Lifting her skirts, she hurried across the room before anyone could stand in her way. “I refuse to let those wicked devils gloat while a good man suffers.”

“Leila, don't be foolish!” Christina called after her.

“Either I have power, or I don't,” Leila shouted, sidestepping the young Ives who blocked her way. “I'll not wait any longer to find out.”

Wickham, Lord John, and Sir Barton looked up in surprise as Leila swept into the room, trailed by her sister in breeches and Joseph with a scowl on his face. “To what do we owe this honor?” Wickham asked, lifting his mug and sipping in appreciation.

“To me,” Leila answered with fury. “Without me, you would all be nothing. For my nephew's sake, I recognized you. And now, I think I'll have all London banish you.”

Belatedly remembering their manners, the three young men staggered to their feet in bewilderment.

Wickham shrugged. “You're the one who decided Ives was more interesting. I'm the one who will inherit a title, not him. You made a poor choice, if you ask me.”

“Leave her be, Henry,” Sir Barton warned. “She's a Malcolm and not to be trusted.”

“I am but a woman, sir.” She swept closer, cautiously sniffing her surroundings. “And you did not offer to help me grow roses.”

“Roses,” Lord John scoffed. “Most women want jewels. Who could know you wanted foolish flowers?”

She needed to catch more subtle aromas. Or use the perfume in her pocket. With a distracting sway of her skirts, she strode toward a window not far from their table. “Perhaps next time you will think to ask.”

Behind her, she could hear Christina admonishing Joseph to hold his tongue. He was no doubt ready to tear her to shreds for even speaking with the men who had locked his brother in a stable.

She let the rage build within her and waited for the right moment.

“It's too late now to curry our favor,” Lord John replied with scorn. “Your nephew owes me a debt greater than he can pay. Once he marries my sister, his house in London as well as the one in Bath will be open to me anytime.”

“How very charming.” Leila decided she would set fire to both house and gardens before she allowed that to happen. Curling her fingers around the vial concealed in her pocket, she loosened the lid. “Staines needs a man to look after him. He does not heed my counsel.”

“He'll heed ours,” Wickham snarled, reaching for his ale.

“No, he won't. He'll heed Dunstan's or none at all. I have proof of Dunstan's innocence. He'll be free shortly.” She still couldn't ascertain guilt or innocence through their scents, and they would return to their gaming if she did not act now.

Before any of the men could suspect her intention, Leila whipped the vial from her pocket and raised her hand to fling it.

Lord John leaped toward her and smacked her arm away, dashing the vial—and her hopes—against the wall. The odor billowed on the air currents instead of soaking her adversaries. In despair, she knew she'd never wring a confession from them now.

Behind her, Leila heard Joseph's shout of anger at Lord John's hasty action, but before they could come to fisticuffs, Wickham intervened. Gripping Leila's wrist, he jerked her toward him. “Drenching us in your foul potions won't stop Dunstan from hanging,” he warned.

Caught by surprise and off balance, Leila stumbled into his narrow chest. She was still devastated by her inability to save Dunstan and didn't feel fear for herself—until Wickham swung her around and wrapped his arm about her neck, playfully raising her chin… and the scent of murder exploded inside her head.

A vision of Celia rose through the darkness, and Leila screamed.

***

Glancing
down
at
the
startled, drunken faces below her, Celia laughed. Then, turning back into the room, she fastened her mantle and nudged the big man on the floor with her toe. “I trust you killed him.”

The
man
retrieving
his
cocked
hat
from
the
wardrobe
shrugged
and
brushed
at
the
felt. “He killed George. One way or another, he's a dead man.”

Startled
by
his
cold
tone, Celia stopped laughing. She smiled again as he caressed her neck, lifting the heavy necklace fastened there. “Then we can be married,” she purred in satisfaction. “Let it be soon, so the child has a name.”

“But you were the one who sent George to his death,” he murmured, running his thumb up and down her throat. “Bitch.”

***

“Dammit, Ewen, where's your inventiveness when I need it? Get me out of here!” Dunstan shouted as he pounded his shoulder against a door that would not budge no matter how much force he applied.

He heard his brother scrambling around outside the stable. He didn't ask what Ewen had done with the constable or the men who should be guarding him. He didn't care. He needed to reach Leila before she did something rash.

Despair raged through him as he nearly dislocated his shoulder slamming into the oak-hard door yet again. “Acid, can you not use acid?” he yelled. “Boil some water, put your infernal steam machine to use. Gunpowder! There's bound to be gunpowder.”

“I've found it,” Griffith shouted from the outside wall.

“Griffith? Ewen, why the devil isn't he at the inn?”

“Because he listens as well as you do,” Ewen said in disgust. “Stand back. The brat has a solution.”

“What? Lightning? Pulleys?” Dunstan let his thoughts roll over the multitude of insane creations Ewen had perpetrated upon the world. Surely one of them had a use.

“An ax.”

The wall behind him splintered beneath the force of a blade.

Dunstan would have laughed at so mundane a solution had the situation not been so dire. If no one had killed his guards, then they would be on him within minutes. He wanted to swing the ax himself. He possessed more brute strength than Griffith or his dandified brother.

“My son is an Ives, through and through,” Dunstan said with pride as the hole opened. “Give it to me. Where are the guards?”

Griffith slid the ax handle through, as Ewen answered. “I just checked. Staines is entertaining them with cigars. You should hear them shortly.”

“The devil he is! What's he doing here? Stand back.” Swinging the ax, Dunstan tore through the splintered planks, widening the opening in a single blow.

“Staines has decided his bread is best buttered on the side of the Malcolms, from what I can tell. He just arrived in a tearing hurry, and I set him to distracting the guards.”

After slashing through the remaining planks, Dunstan shoved loosened boards aside and stepped through the hole into freedom. He hugged his worried son, hoping to dispel some of the fear on his face, and demanded, “Where's Leila?”

Ewen nodded in the direction of the inn.

Small explosions coming from the front of the stable warned them that Staines's “cigars” had taken their toll. Dunstan shoved Griffith into Ewen's arms and sprinted across the muck of the stable yard toward the inn.

He heard Leila's scream before he reached the front door. Panic gave wings to his feet.

He burst into a tavern reeking of the perfume she'd concocted for Lord John. At the appalling sight inside, Dunstan slammed both his arms up to halt the man and boy who arrived fast on his heels.

Wickham held Leila's neck in the crook of his arm in such a position that it would take only one sharp move to crack it. Dunstan froze, assessing the situation.

Leila didn't seem to notice his arrival. Her captor glanced in bewilderment from her limp form to Dunstan and began to back away, dragging Leila with him. Wickham's drinking companions stared in astonishment, their mugs frozen in midair.

Without a word said, Dunstan understood—this was how Wickham had killed Celia. This was how he would kill Leila if no one stopped him.

“Drop her, you bastard,” Dunstan ordered, cold calm replacing insane terror now that he had Leila in sight. He understood instantly that Leila's safety demanded his restraint. He didn't like the blank expression on her face. She wasn't seeing this room. What, then, was she seeing in that strange mind of hers?

“She fainted,” Wickham said in puzzlement. “What lies have you told her?”

Dunstan was vaguely aware of his brothers and Leila's sister gathering behind him, but he remained focused on the man holding his life in his hands. “Let her go.” He took a step forward.

Wickham stepped back. “Don't come closer! I won't let you kill me as you did George.”

Appearing confused, Leila awoke enough to wrap her hands around Wickham's entrapping arm, preventing any imminent danger of snapping her neck.

Dunstan had to use every ounce of restraint he'd ever practiced to keep from dashing across the room to rip the bastard's head off. “Leila? Can you hear me?” he asked softly, then winced as Wickham jerked her head back farther.

Leila blinked, gasped, then instinctively stood on the tips of her toes. Apparently returning to consciousness, she gripped Wickham's arm tighter so she could breathe and speak easier. “Dunstan.” She smiled faintly before her gaze swept the anxious faces filling the room and the seriousness of the situation showed on her face.

“Wickham, she is ill. Let her sit down,” Dunstan said calmly, although his heart beat hard enough to pound through his chest.

Sir Barton eased toward the pair, but Wickham jerked Leila's chin up higher. “Stay away! All of you, get out. This is between me and Ives.”

Leila caught his eye, willing him to do something, but he wasn't a Malcolm and couldn't read her signal. He hesitated. What did she want of him? The room reeked of spilled perfume, and he swore he could almost smell fear.

“Christina, leave, please,” Leila whispered.

The girl looked rebellious and didn't move. Dunstan grabbed Christina's collar and Joseph's coat and shoved them both toward Ewen in the doorway. “Out of here, all of you.” He nodded at Griffith to indicate he should leave as well.

As the younger ones reluctantly departed, Dunstan lifted an eyebrow in the direction of Sir Barton and Lord John. Leila nodded slightly. Immediately, he caught their arms and shoved them toward the exit. “Out, all of you.” He might lack understanding, but he still possessed brute strength.

And Leila's trust.

The gentlemen resisted, glancing anxiously at their drinking companion, but Wickham's furious gaze was focused solely on Dunstan. Silently, they followed the others.

With the room cleared of all but the three of them, Dunstan clenched his fists. “Now, let her go, you bastard.”

“I'll break her neck if you take one more step,” Wickham warned. “You have a bad habit of picking sharp-tongued vixens, don't you?”

Before Dunstan could adjust to this unexpected topic, Leila interrupted in a soothing voice. “Celia lied to you, didn't she, Wickham? You didn't really mean to harm her.”

“She claimed she was with child,” Wickham spat with disgust. “She told George she would marry him if he could only dispose of her country farmer husband. She was inordinately fond of titles, and George was in line for my uncle's.”

Dunstan didn't wince at this portrayal of his treacherous, adulterous wife, or remark upon Wickham's willingness to admit it. He didn't fully understand the spell Leila was spinning but steeled himself to wait for some opportunity to intervene.

The possibility of losing his stubborn witch in a heartbeat shrieked obscenities through Dunstan's mind. Violent emotions boiled and threatened to explode, but he stood still, fists tight, waiting, trusting her.

“Then it was Celia's fault that George died,” Leila said sympathetically. “She sent him to his death.” She darted Dunstan a glance, warning him not to move.