The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) (7 page)

It
is
wiser
to
err
on
the
side
of
belief
.

Whatever Elderwood pronounced, Alexis wasn’t likely to start
believing in magic, but...Peony Whistleby, he realized suddenly, was in grave
danger of
not
believing. Not about ghosts and
boggarts and such—it was easy enough to believe in that sort of thing because it
didn’t involve any sort of action—but about herself. Surely she must know that
many men who were in no hurry to marry eventually settled down. Perhaps it had
never occurred to her that one such man might settle down with her. Just because
Alexis wasn’t thinking of marriage a few days ago didn’t mean he hadn’t come
round to the idea now.

No, she had such a low opinion of herself that even after
performing a folk rite and experiencing what must, to her, be astonishing
results, she still didn’t believe the magic had worked.

Alexis hatched a plan.

* * *

Peony wanted to do it again.

She stood at her bedchamber window early the next morning—a
little way back so she wouldn’t be visible—and watched Sir Alexis and Lucasta in
the knot garden. Lucasta was doing most of the talking, her gestures wild with
emotion, while Alexis paced calmly beside her, hands behind his back, nodding
and offering a word or two from time to time. Peony loved everything about him,
from his hair to his eyes and mouth, to his hands and his beating heart and the
powerful thighs in his pantaloons, and the member that had pushed inside her
last night and given her such pleasure.

She wanted him again. And she was sure to want him again after
that.

She mustn’t. It wasn’t right. Why wouldn’t the magic let her
be?

She crept closer to the window, drinking in the sight of
Alexis’s calm, competent figure. Had he spoken to Lucasta in spite of promising
he wouldn’t? Peony couldn’t really blame him if he had; he believed himself in
love, so of course he would feel it necessary to act.

Lucasta didn’t seem angry at him, which was one small comfort.
She appeared, rather, to be asking his advice—not that she was permitting him
much opportunity to give it. She threw up her hands as if at her wit’s end.
After a minute, Alexis said something to her, and they both raised their
eyes.

Peony’s heart fluttered, but they weren’t looking her way. They
were discussing something higher up and to the right, and Lucasta
pointed—perhaps at the trees where the rooks always nested, or...at the Haunted
Bedchamber? Not likely. Sir Alexis didn’t believe in ghosts.

He turned his head and saw her. He grinned and raised a hand,
and she jumped back, hot with embarrassment and chilly with regret. What was she
going to do?

For most of the day, she had no difficulty avoiding him. He
rode away with Papa and Lord Elderwood to inspect the estate and see a hunter
the squire had up for sale. The vicar’s wife and daughter called and talked and
talked, but drove away disappointed at not having yet met the earl. Lucasta went
walking for hours and behaved awfully strangely upon her return, staring into
space and starting whenever anyone spoke to her. The squire and his wife and son
came to dine.

Then, just after the syllabub was served, Sir Alexis said, “I’d
like to spend tonight in your haunted room.”

* * *

From the babble that greeted this announcement, two
voices were notably absent: Lucasta’s and Peony’s. Lucasta’s lack of reaction
didn’t surprise him; she was completely absorbed in concerns of her own. Peony,
on the other hand, caught his eyes for the first time all day.

He winked at her and dealt with the hubbub—the dire predictions
of Mr. Whistleby’s sister and the squire’s wife, the gruesome tales of the
squire and his son, the anxious protests of Mr. Whistleby, and Lord Elderwood’s
seemingly uncontrollable laughter.

“Miss Barnes,” said the squire’s wife. “He’s your betrothed.
Surely you can prevent him from taking such a foolhardy step.”

Lucasta emerged from her brown study long enough to say, “I’m
not his keeper. Sir Alexis may do as he pleases.”

The two older ladies tutted, and Elderwood halted his guffawing
for a moment and said, “Miss Barnes isn’t worried. Like Sir Alexis, she doesn’t
believe in ghosts or magic or any of that folderol. Miss Whistleby, however,
appears quite concerned.”

Peony had been pale all day, but now she rivaled the tablecloth
for whiteness. A twinge of remorse assailed Alexis—but only a twinge. “Sir
Alexis, I don’t think it’s a wise plan,” she said. “Many people have tried and
come down from there extremely shaken. Once you get in, it—it can be
frightening, and it’s often difficult to find the way out.”

Alexis grinned. “That’s not the way to dissuade me, Miss
Whistleby.”

“I understand a young man’s desire to take up a challenge,” Mr.
Whistleby said, “but many have come to regret it.”

Alexis shrugged.

Mr. Whistleby sighed. “We have established a procedure for
those who wish to spent a night there. You may take with you one candle, a small
jug of wine and a bell. No one will hear you if you ring the bell in the room,
but if you are in the corridors, someone might hear and come to rescue you.” He
sighed again. “Or might not.”

“Perfect,” Alexis said. “I wager I’ll come down in the morning
as sane as I went up.”

Elderwood snorted, still quivering with laughter. The squire’s
son shuddered and said, “Bet you don’t last an hour up there.”

“How much?” returned Alexis.

The lad reddened. Was he one of the locals who didn’t find
Peony attractive? Had he perhaps braved the room, but failed—bested by a girl
who didn’t fear the room at all? “Pockets to let,” he mumbled.

“Ah,” Alexis said. “So you fear you might not win.”

“I cannot be held responsible for the consequences,” Mr.
Whistleby said.

“There won’t be any,” Alexis said, fervently praying there
would.

* * *

Peony couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the wind that might
be ghosts or the footsteps that might be bogeys. Ordinarily those didn’t bother
her, but if they were worrisome down here, they would be downright terrifying
for someone in the Haunted Bedchamber. Did Sir Alexis think he would prove that
ghosts didn’t exist? Or that bogeys weren’t real?

Was he, deep in his heart, fighting the magic as much as
she?

She hoped so, she truly did, no matter how much it hurt, but
this drastic method wouldn’t work. The people who professed most strongly not to
believe were the ones who came downstairs shattered. Or got lost coming out and
fell down the stairs in the dark!

Papa had shown him to the bottom of the staircase and
instructed him where to go from there. Unable to stop herself, Peony had hovered
behind. “I cannot send a footman to guide you,” Papa said. “It’s hard enough to
keep servants here without expecting that of them.”

“I’ll be fine.” Alexis had disappeared up the stairs with his
candle, bottle and bell. His footsteps had died away, and Papa had ordered Peony
off to bed.

An hour went by, two hours, three... Maybe his candle had gone
out, and he’d lost his bell. That sort of mischance was only too likely. Even
now, he might be desperately groping his way through the convoluted
corridors.

No, he wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like the squire’s son or
others who’d gone up there with much bravado and returned shaking. Alexis would
sit it out, determined to prove that magic didn’t exist. He wouldn’t give up or
give in. She pictured him rocking before the fireplace in the dark, covering his
ears against the noise.

She couldn’t bear it any longer. She lit a candle, tucked her
feet into her slippers and headed for the stairs.

* * *

The Haunted Bedchamber had an unexpectedly lived-in
appearance. The Elizabethan tester bed was fitted out with a mattress, sheets
and pillows, and a coverlet. A bookcase held several volumes of poetry, as well
as two novels by Mrs. Radcliffe. There was even enough wood in the basket by the
fireplace to start a fire on the remnants of the old, which by the look of it
wasn’t from long ago. Did Peony use this room as a retreat?

He removed the key from the door and pocketed it. He knelt
before the fireplace and arranged a tidy pile of kindling, then took a small
taper to light from his candle’s flame. A rattle sounded in the chimney, a gust
of wind whistled down and his candle went out.

Alexis laughed, wondering if this happened to everyone. He got
out his tinder box, coaxed a small flame to life and held it aloft where a draft
from the chimney wouldn’t reach it.

A flapping casement did. No wonder people were easily unnerved
up here.

He lit another piece of tinder. “Do as you please, but this
isn’t meant to be a test of my belief,” he said. “It’s a test of Miss
Peony’s.”

Dead silence greeted this. He got his bearings, blew out the
little flame and went to shut the window, but the bolt was broken, so the wind
would open it again soon enough.

Very well, he opened it wide. The moon, now a day past full,
shone helpfully into the room. Clouds scudded past, blocking its light, then
freeing it again. Footsteps skittered behind the paneling; could be mice
or...could be bogeys. Alexis didn’t particularly care. What he believed or
didn’t had nothing to do with what existed—or didn’t. “Louder,” he said. “Make
all the commotion you can, if that’s what it takes.” Briefly, he explained his
predicament, in case the ghosts and bogeys didn’t already know. “Wake her up to
the fact that she can’t call upon love and then deny it.”

Whoever or whatever it was that did or didn’t exist had a go at
testing him, as well. He’d never been in a room full of so many night
noises—creaks, hisses, moans and busy little footsteps. More than once,
something seemed to brush past him in the darkness. He wasn’t afraid of rats, so
he ignored whatever it was. He took off his coat, shoes and stockings, and tried
out the bed; it creaked, as well, but bore his weight. He drank some wine. He
tried to light the fire again, but a draft from nowhere blew the flame out. He
huffed, and spent a good long while watching out the window. He spied
Elderwood’s tall figure striding across the lawn, coattails flapping in the
wind. He spared a brief thought for Lucasta, who didn’t need to believe in
ghosts; she was battling specters of her own.

Shortly after that it began to rain, first softly and then in
such a downpour that he had to hold the window shut. The room went wild with
commotion, but he stuck it out until the rain stopped and the wind died down. He
tried lighting the fire again. This time it caught. By the light of the flames,
he read his watch: almost three o’clock.

Five minutes later, soft footsteps approached the room—human
ones. “Sir Alexis?”

“Miss Whistleby.” He shucked his shirt; might as well have some
advantage to start with. He opened the door and smiled down at her. “Have you
come to rescue me?”

Her eyes widened, and he thought she blushed. She averted her
eyes from his bare chest and came slowly into the room, a candle in one hand and
a key in the other. “I feared the bogeys might have locked you in and stolen the
key.”

He took the key from his breeches pocket and silently showed it
to her. “I left the door unlocked for my beautiful rescuer.”

Her eyes rested on his chest again. She swallowed and faced the
fireplace. “Did you start the fire without difficulty? Did you hear no footsteps
or moans?”

“I heard plenty, and the fire took three tries. But whether or
not I believe in ghosts or bogeys is beside the point. The one whose belief is
in question...is you, my love.”

* * *

My
love
...

Those precious words echoed through her mind and heart. She
tried to capture and crush them, tried to cast them as powder to the wind. Tried
to stifle the clamor within her at the nakedness of his chest, its powerful
masculinity far more compelling than what she’d imagined.

Half-naked or not, he didn’t need rescuing, so she should
leave. She turned.

He got to the door before her, locking it and pocketing the key
again. “Until you finally got here, I was wondering whether you believe in magic
at all.”

“Mostly, I do,” she said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to
make sure you were all right.” She firmed her resolve and went to the door.
“Please unlock it again.”

He stood with his back to the door. “Not on your life.” His
smile broke her heart. “Do you come to check on every fool who tries to spend
the night up here?”

She shook her head. “No.” She blushed. “Never before.”

“Because you didn’t care about them. You do care about me.”

Why must he gaze at her so tenderly? She tried to clench her
fists, but her whole being trembled with weakness.

“You love me,” he said.

Helpless to deny it, she nodded.

“You rolled in the dew to call me to your side. You wouldn’t
have done that if you didn’t believe it would work. Well, it did work, and here
I am.”

“Just because you’re m-my true love,” she whispered, “doesn’t
mean I’m yours.”

“What sort of useless magic would produce such a lopsided
result? Come now, sweetheart.” He took the candle and key from her and set them
on the floor. “It’s all or nothing. Either you believe or you don’t, and if you
do, you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”

He pulled her into his arms. She inhaled the masculine scent
that was his alone. Little sparks of desire flared into life within her breasts
and belly, and she was lost...

No
. She stiffened, turning her face
away from his. She mustn’t let her love for him overcome reason and common
sense. “You don’t want to marry. You told me as much, and Lucasta confirmed
it.”