Must Be Magic (29 page)

What did she see that he could not?

“George was a drunken idiot,” Wickham declared. “He would do anything Celia told him to do. He spent his inheritance on the brainless chit.” He appeared startled that he'd admitted such a thing and shot a warning glance at Dunstan.

“As Dunstan did,” Leila continued consolingly, heedless of her captor's grip. “Those buttons she wore were quite costly. How did Dunstan come to have one in his hand?”

A malevolent gleam lit Wickham's eye. “I put it there when I shoved him into the hall. Brilliant of me, wasn't it? Kill Celia and let her husband take the blame.” Wickham laughed as if this was the funniest joke he'd heard, then looked startled again.

Dunstan swallowed a lump of fear. What would Wickham do if he realized Leila was somehow manipulating his revelations? She must have had another vision to know the right questions to ask.

He watched with his heart in his mouth as Leila reached behind her to pat Wickham's face, sending Dunstan a look that had him rolling his weight to the balls of his feet in preparation.

“Celia had no care for any man. It was
your
child she carried, wasn't it?” she asked of her captor.

“How did you know that?” Wickham demanded in astonishment. “After she sent George to his death, I had no choice but to kill her. She wanted
me
to marry her.”

Dunstan could barely grasp the full extent of what Leila was doing, but he knew she used whatever provocative force existed inside her to pry this confession from Wickham. He had to admire the way she combined the knowledge gained from her vision with her instinct to reveal what others would conceal.

He—of all people—should have glimpsed the terrifying extent of her abilities.

Leila didn't need roses. She didn't need perfume to access her gift. She possessed a power far greater than the feeble ones of her aunt and mother.

And she would die because of him if he didn't do something soon.

Catching sight of Ewen positioning himself outside the open window behind Leila, Dunstan steeled himself to act before Wickham grew tired of answering questions.

Taking a deep breath and saying a prayer, Dunstan stepped forward. Wickham stepped backward—toward the window.

Leila fixed her gaze on Dunstan, forcing him to wait. “Of course you had no choice,” she told her captor. “And George had already spent his inheritance on her, so there was nothing left except Celia's jewels. I begin to understand your predicament.”

Wickham relaxed an infinitesimal amount. “I had to get George's money back,” he agreed. “Her jewels were worth a fortune, and she refused to give them up.”

Dunstan took another step forward. Wickham glared at him, but retreated to within reach of the window.

“She owed you?” Leila asked, holding tight to Wickham's arm and standing on her toes.

She prayed Dunstan would heed her look. Her heart pounded fiercely in anticipation. Did he understand? She could tell by the way his fists clenched that he wanted nothing more than to strangle Wickham, but he was restraining all that violent emotion—simply because she asked it of him.

He had the strength to heave Wickham through the window, had every incentive to do so, but Dunstan's intelligent gaze watched her with determination, waiting for her signal, trusting in her ability.

Trusting her ability—completely and without question. That was the only gift she needed.

Exhilaration blossomed inside her the instant Wickham's grip relaxed enough for her to make her move. She caught Dunstan's gaze, nodded briefly, and he exploded into action.

Before Wickham could react, Dunstan crossed the distance in a single step. Leila gasped in relief as he caught her waist and lifted her from the floor with his left arm. With his right hand, he snatched the arm entrapping her from around her neck with such force that she could hear the bones of Wickham's wrist snap.

As Wickham howled in pain, Dunstan lowered Leila's feet to the floor and twisted her captor's arm behind his back in a move that was so crippling, Wickham doubled up in agony.

Finally registering the shouts coming from outside the window, Leila moved back against the wall. With the ease of a man pitching dung from a stable, Dunstan hurled Wickham toward the open window, into the waiting hands of his brother.

Free at last, Leila flung her arms around Dunstan, letting him cradle her against his chest.

With her face buried in a broad shoulder, Leila felt Dunstan's grunt of satisfaction as Ewen climbed over the windowsill and throttled Wickham's windpipe in the same painful manner as he'd held hers—effectively preventing his escape and cutting off his howls of rage.

She was safe. Her heart beat with Dunstan's, her hair brushed his unshaven jaw, and his breath blew against her neck.

“Do you know what you just did?” Dunstan shouted in her ear.

“Made you angry?” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck and twisting his hair between her fingers. “You don't smell angry.”

“Damn it, Leila, you could have gotten yourself killed,” he roared in frustration. “Do I have to hang about all the time to keep you and your nose out of trouble?”

She peered at him from beneath fluttering lashes. “Would you?”

A familiar dry voice silenced all the shouting except Wickham's choked curses. “Am I to see all of you locked in gaol or just the one being strangled?”

Dunstan's brothers and son, and even Leila's nephew, held their tongues and turned expectantly to Dunstan.

Slipping past the men gathering in the doorway, even Christina looked to Dunstan to reply to the toweringly furious Earl of Ives. Drogo had commanded his herd of unruly brothers for so long that he'd taken on the authority of both judge and jury.

Leila smiled as Dunstan studied her face for reassurance, and she swelled with pride at his confident manner when he faced his imperious brother.

“I have matters under control,” Dunstan replied. “You can go back and study the stars a while longer.”

“I don't suppose anyone cares to explain what has happened here?” Drogo asked, his glance roaming from Ewen holding Wickham in front of the tavern window to Lord John and Sir Barton hurrying out the front door of the inn.

“Ask the witch in breeches,” Ewen answered. “Then send her home where she belongs.”

“Leave Christina out of this,” Joseph shouted in her defense. “I have to stop those scoundrels heading for the stable. They might have evidence they can give.” He shoved past Drogo to race after Wickham's friends.

Whoops of delight erupted from Griffith and the young viscount, both of whom dashed out in Joseph's wake.

Leila settled back into Dunstan's arms and all but purred. “I'm beginning to recognize the sounds of an Ives harmony. Do you think they can carry on without us?”

Being a man of few words, Dunstan elbowed his way past his bemused brother. While members of their families cornered Barton and Lord John in the stable, Dunstan flung open the door of the carriage that was still standing in the yard.

“I have nowhere to take you,” he muttered in frustration as he deposited her inside.

Leila noticed in satisfaction that he didn't allow that little problem to stop him from jumping in and ordering the driver away.

“You could have been killed!” Dunstan ranted as the carriage jerked forward. “What the devil did you think you were doing back there?”

“Trusting my instincts,” Leila murmured, snuggling close until he wrapped his arm around her, “just as you told me to do.”

“I'm telling you to forget instincts and stay in London and never smell another scent again,” he roared senselessly. “I'd sooner rip my own heart out than see you take such risks.”

Leila patted his rumpled cravat and pulled it loose. “Did anyone ever tell you how handsome you are when you're angry?” She chuckled at his outraged expression.

Dunstan caught her hand to prevent her marauding fingers from wandering farther. “If I don't have you soon, I'll go mad, but the only bed I own is two days away,” he complained as the driver blew his horn and the carriage swung into the open road. He lifted Leila into his lap so the jolts of the swaying carriage wouldn't jar her.

She snuggled deeper into his reassuring embrace, felt the press of his rising ardor, and smiled in contentment. Dunstan might gripe, but he held her as if she were a precious jewel—or turnip, she thought with a smile. She would listen to his complaints for a lifetime in exchange for the security of his brawny arms. She would create a new perfume for him. He smelled of confidence and uncertainty at the same time.

“What about the bog you own? Isn't that near here?” She pressed her cheek into his rumpled coat, more interested in this discussion than what had happened back at the inn. “Does it have a roof and four walls?”

“A crumbling hunting box,” he grumbled. “That is no place to take you. You need silk sheets and a maid to wait upon you. I need to take you home, where you belong.”

“I need
you
,” she stated firmly, kissing the strong column of his throat above his unfastened cravat. Men carried impossible ideals in their heads, she'd discovered. It was time she disabused him of a few of his. “I do not wish to hear your litany of denials until after you've held me long enough to blot out these last hours.”

“Hold you is all I
can
do in that bog.” His big hands slipped her hairpins loose, freeing her curls to fall about her shoulders. “I have things I need to say that require a romantic bower, but both our families would hunt us down should I take you back to the grotto now.”

Leila's hopes took wing, although she had no reason to believe the obstinate man was ready to see things her way. He'd told her to rely on her instincts, and henceforth she would. “I want to see your bog,” she demanded. “I want to hold you like this, with no one making demands of us for a while.”

Raising an eyebrow at her insistence, Dunstan leaned over and hit the driver's door, gave him instructions, then settled her more comfortably in his lap.

He sat back and tilted her chin so their eyes met. “Now tell me what you saw back there.”

She smiled in quiet pride. “I saw Celia.”

She gave him a moment to bluster and complain. Instead, he blanched slightly beneath his weather-beaten complexion but nodded in acceptance and waited for her to continue.

Carefully, she explained what she'd seen and how she'd interpreted it.

“Henry looks enough like his brother George that no one thought to notice him when he left later,” she added at the end of her story. “At the time, the innkeeper didn't know George was dead, so I imagine he wouldn't have thought twice if he saw Henry leave.”

Leila smoothed Dunstan's stubbled cheek with her hand as he closed his eyes against the pain of Celia's abrupt end. “You sacrificed everything for her—your son, your earnings, your future. You could not have done more.”

He nodded wordlessly, and they rode in silence while he buried his grief for the wife he'd never truly known.

As the carriage carried them in the direction he'd chosen, Dunstan tightened his arms around her. “You're too dangerous to be allowed in public.”

“I won't be your possession to hide away,” she reminded him. Keep him off balance, she decided, and she might survive the sweet torture of his experienced fingers sliding across her bare skin as he sought the fastening of her gown. “I understand how you felt about Celia, but you know full well I'm not Celia. You'll have to trust me, because I'll not deny who I am for anyone ever again.”

Dunstan nibbled her ear, and releasing the hooks at her back, slid his hand around to caress her breasts above her corset. “Not wanting to share you doesn't mean I expect you to fit some imaginary mold as society does. I want you to be all that you can be. I would have particularly admired your performance earlier if it had not nearly given me failure of the heart.”

“You understood as no other man would have,” she murmured in satisfaction. “You did not act the part of raging bull, but waited and trusted my instincts. That's why I love you.”

At her declaration of love, Dunstan stilled, studying her through discerning dark eyes while his fingers rubbed across the aching tip of her breast.

He said nothing, and Leila would have beat him with her fist if she had not understood his dilemma. In some ways, they were in perfect agreement. In others, they were miles apart.

She stroked his scratchy jaw and smiled. “You told me to follow my instincts. Well, instinct says I should no longer hide what I feel.”

Dunstan tugged at her corset strings so he might explore her unfettered breasts. He'd much rather act on
his
instincts than talk about hers, but they'd done that before and ended up with nothing settled. “You probably know how I feel better than I do,” he admitted. “That doesn't change our positions.”

She grabbed fistfuls of his hair and drew his head up so he must meet her eyes. He kissed her lips before she could unleash her tongue.

Gratified by the small moans he elicited, he caressed her breasts and debated the wisdom of taking her in the rattling carriage. Remembering the child she carried, he resisted. But if he meant to continue resisting, he'd have to quit kissing. With a sigh of regret, he released her mouth, stole one more look at the fair swells he wished to claim, and pulled her bodice closed. “You want the words?” he demanded. “You want proof of what kind of besotted idiot I am?”

“Yes, please,” she answered, with a coy flutter of lashes. “How will I know if my instincts are correct unless someone verifies them?”

Gads, she tugged at his heartstrings. Dunstan caressed her cheek and steeled himself. “I love you,” he declared stoutly.

The words weren't as difficult to say as he'd imagined, and he repeated them with a sense of wonder. “I love you. I don't wish to share you with any other man.” He blinked in amazement that he did not incinerate into a heap of ashes at the admission.

“I want to be able to talk with you anytime I wish.” The words kept tumbling out, unrestrained. “I want the freedom of your bed every night of the week, and in between, if I can. I want to be with you when you discover more about your abilities, and I want to be with you when your experiments go wrong. Is that enough, or shall I rip my heart out and hand it to you?”

Perhaps he sounded a little too gruff. He'd scared Celia often enough with his crude outbursts. Leila, though, as she'd reminded him, was not Celia. She smiled in such genuine delight at his rough declaration that his heart ached even more at what could never be. His name might be cleared, but he couldn't take away her land and gardens and all her glorious hopes for the future by marrying her.

“Your heart is already in the right place,” she replied, snuggling against his chest and burning a kiss where she'd opened his shirt. “It's your head that needs examining. I want all that you want, and more. You are far more important to me than land or roses or perfume. You are not a man who is happy with an empty bed, and I am not a woman who would enjoy seeing you share it with another. And our families have made it obvious they will not be happy if we have this child without the conventions being met.”

Dunstan sank his hand into her hair and held her against his chest where he could not fall into her bewitching eyes and believe what he wanted to hear. “They want marriage,” he said hoarsely. “But you will lose everything if we marry.”

“I will lose everything if we do not.”

To her, “everything” must mean him, though he could scarce credit it.

The carriage lurched, tilted, and righted itself, in accompaniment with his nervous insides. Its progress was growing noticeably slower. Dunstan glanced out the far window and prayed as he'd never prayed before that Leila could see beyond the immediate. “In a moment, you will see what madness you speak.”

He held her tightly, knowing he would have to release her once her madness ran its course and her formidable intelligence returned. He ought to run to Scotland with her right now, while opportunity beckoned, but he could not lock her into a marriage she would regret. They'd both done that before.

Gently, he began refastening the hooks he'd undone. The carriage came to an abrupt halt. Leila looked at him questioningly but began righting her hair.

“We did not go far,” she said.

Dunstan jerked his cravat in place to cover his opened shirt. “My maternal grandfather was squire here. I grew up in the countryside around Baden and Ives. Most of my grandfather's land passed to my mother's brother, but he knew my heart was with the soil, and he left me what he could.” He set her on the seat as the driver climbed down to unlatch the carriage door. “I'd hoped one day to have sufficient money to drain this acreage and make it arable, but it's impossible to do that and support a family as well.”

Dunstan stepped out of the carriage and looked around while Leila finished tying her ribbons. He breathed deeply of the moist air, smelled the dirt of home, and drew it into his starving soul before forcing himself to look at the hovel that would no doubt send Leila screaming back to London.

It hadn't improved with age. Made of stone, covered in ivy, thatched roof rotting and falling in, it looked as abandoned as it was. Sheep had harvested the worst of the weeds, and wildflowers bloomed heedlessly in protected corners, but it was still a hovel. He might long to restore this land, but even he wouldn't live here.

He turned and reluctantly held out his arms to swing Leila down. He might as well dash all their happy dreams now.

“Be careful of your shoes,” he murmured, holding her in his arms for one brief moment before lowering her to the grass. He hadn't realized how much he'd longed for the right to hold her like this, to bring her to his home, to believe she would stand by his side through thick and thin.

No matter what the future held, Leila would reside inside him forever. She might as well know that.

Dunstan turned her to face the ramshackle dwelling and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. He might have to show her, but he didn't have to watch her expression of horror as he did.

She stayed silent for so long that despair took root in his heart. “Once my name is officially clear, I am free to earn a living anywhere,” he reminded her. “If you would not mind living with Ninian, I could return to Ives. We have choices,” he tried to tell her, although he couldn't believe what he was saying.

“Those are roses blooming in that weed patch,” she said with what sounded like fascination. “Can we look?”

Shaking his head at the vagaries of the female mind, Dunstan held out his arm and helped her climb over the weeds and briars and brambles. “Half of England is covered in roses,” he reminded her. “If I drained the bog, you might have enough acreage to develop the garden you planned, but we would have to eat rose petals or starve. I have two children to consider first.” That thought caused him both pride and pain. He wanted Griffith and his unborn daughter to grow up in a happy home with roses in their garden and a loving mother who would balance out his faults.

Leila crouched down to examine a burst of pink blooms buried in long grass.

“They smell of love,” she exclaimed. “I've not seen this variety anywhere.”

To Dunstan's utter shock, she leaped up and flung her arms around him. “I want a garden!” she cried. “I thought I could give it up, but I can't. I want a garden. I want
this
garden.” She lifted magnificent blue eyes up to his and pleaded. “I can smell it here. It's perfect. I know it will take work, but it's here. I know it is. I can see it!”

Totally flummoxed and bewildered, Dunstan held her at the waist, and trapped by her bewitching eyes, he attempted to find logic in the insanity of her declaration. “What is perfect? The rotting thatch? The verdant weeds?”

“The land.” She sighed in delight, snuggling into him. “It's not rocky like mine. It has lots of the moisture flowers need. It will grow wonderful roses, ones that smell of love. Can you imagine what I can do with a perfume that smells like love?”

“Other people don't smell love,” he reminded her, although he could scarcely think clearly with her breasts pressed into him and her arms around his neck. “And you can't live here. It's not fit for a sty.”

She waved a careless hand, released him, and darted off to examine another flower. “Lavender,” she called in satisfaction. “It's an old garden. There could be treasures all over, old ones that are hard to find. I can grow the flowers that I need here. Here, I'll learn how to control my visions.”

He followed cautiously in her path while seeking a way to make her idea work. He hated to remind her of the expense involved in draining this land when she seemed so delighted with it. She'd lifted his spirits, for no logical reason whatsoever, considering he was in imminent danger of losing his turnips if they married and Staines claimed her estate.

“I suppose I could work for Drogo and live in his steward's house again,” he mused aloud. “None of my brothers seems eager to take up the position.”