A Certain Magic

by Betina Krahn

  "Mizz Edgethorn, you have to listen," he said in an agony of earnestness. "I came to protect you—"

  Her eyes slowly adjusted to the thin moonlight streaming in through the window, then grew wide and expectant as they searched him. The feel of his lean strength pressed so forcefully, so provocatively against her body seemed strangely more tantalizing than threatening, and the slightest wriggle of resistance on her part only emphasized it. So she stood very still in the hard circle of his arms, growing ever more aware of her own body as she felt his heat seeping into her and watched the play of shadows over his finely chiseled features. Where his body pressed against her, she was beginning to feel quivers and tingles again, and where her palms were braced against his lower ribs, she could feel the hard, naked contours of his belly through his thin nightshirt. She'd never been this close to a man before—much less one in nightclothes. For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to struggle and break free, even though she felt his hold on her easing.

  His hand came up to touch her face, and she was unable to speak for the tightening in her throat. She stared up at him, examining the sweet, almost haphazard stroke of his fingers over her cheek and down the side of her face. What was it about him that seized her senses and made her aware of every peak and valley of her woman's flesh? Then a sound rumbled up between them, generated deep within him and made resonant by the receptive hollow within her. It was a moment before she realized it was his voice… and another moment before she managed to decipher what he'd said.

  "Sp-sparks—I saw sparks."

  Yes, well… she was close to seeing sparks, too, just now. And if his head would only bend a bit more and his lips would only come a little closer, she might learn just what the poets meant about the splendor of…

  "… vapor… rich colors, shimmering and glowing…" His voice sounded thick and urgent.

  Ah, yes… colors. Rich and penetrating. She was beginning to see them, to feel them cascading over and through her, swirling…

  "… like lightning…"

  Ummm, lightning… His broad, sensual mouth was so close now that she could feel his breath bathing her sensitive lips. The searing impact of his male presence was rather like lightning, liquid and powerful as it surged along her nerves and coiled through her very sinews…

  "… witches! They were witches!"

  Oh, yes, definitely wit— witches? Her head snapped upright, and her eyes refocused. She found him clutching her shoulders and staring at her with a wild-eyed expression. "Witches?" she echoed. She had thought he was talking about… while he was rambling on about witches? Her face flamed with chagrin as she realized just how drastically she had misinterpreted his words and behavior. "Whatever are you talking about?" she choked out.

  "Up the stairs, in the dark! I saw them, I swear—dancing and chanting and conjuring—st-stirring some sort of brew in a caldron. They called up vapors and lightning, and there was an explosion and sp-sparks flew everywhere!" He flung his hands wide in demonstration, then grabbed her shoulders again.

  "I'm afraid you're the one conjuring things, Mister Hamilton," she said, shrinking back, her mind racing under the lash of her stinging pride. She might have no experience with men, but she had a wealth of experience with eccentric behavior. And he certainly was behaving oddly… She suddenly recognized the symptoms; the occasional slur of a word, the odd luminosity of his eyes, the uncharacteristic emotion in his manner. He was behaving like someone who'd imbibed too much after-dinner port. Or—it dawned on her—one of her old aunts' powerful toddies! "I think you'd better take yourself straight back to bed."

  "No! I swear to you," he said with a rasp of panic in his voice. "Something woke me, and I followed a light. And there they were! They're witches, I tell you, and I have to warn you—"

  "Witches," she repeated, with as much restraint as she could muster. "You saw witches upstairs, minutes ago." He nodded and glanced feverishly around them again.

  "It was your old aunts—they're witches!"

  Her aunts? That was what this was all about—accusing her old aunts of more wrongdoing… of witchcraft! Her face flushed with humiliated anger, and she shoved his hands from her shoulders. "First they're thieves, then they're witches. Really, Mister Hamilton, that is the limit!"

  He caught her as she turned to go. "No—wait—let me tell you—"

  "No." She whirled in his grasp, glaring at him as if he belonged under a rock. "Let me tell you! My aunts always put a few herbals in their toddies, to help ward off colds and influenza and to help a body get a decent night's sleep. You're obviously under the influence and not seeing or thinking straight. You may have seen my old aunts in the tower room, and you may have seen some odd and unusual things"—lightning, sparks, vapors, and caldrons; it sounded just like the old dears— "but I can assure you, none of it was witchcraft. My aunts are wonderful, sweet old ladies, and tomorrow I shall prove to you that they are neither thieves nor witches!" She jerked away and stalked to the edge of the curtains.

  "Be so good as to go back to bed, Mister Hamilton," she ordered curtly, "and sleep it off."

  Graham Hamilton stood motionless for several minutes after she left, and he slowly began to feel the chilled air from the drafty window swirling around his bare legs and the cold floor beneath his feet. He looked down, blinked at the sight of his bare feet, then straightened and looked around him with a bewildered expression. He was standing in a cold hallway in the dead of night, clad only in a nightshirt, proclaiming he'd just seen a witches' dance. His eyes closed, and his whole body flushed crimson. Had he lost every scrap of sanity he possessed? Miranda Edgethorn certainly seemed to think so.

  But he did see witches, damn it! Didn't he?

  He felt his stomach, then his head. Was he indeed drunk? Drugged? That droning chant, that unholy laughter recurred in his head again, and he shuddered. Could he only have imagined those hideous sounds?

  Part of him prayed Miranda was right, that it was just the effects of a doctored toddy he had consumed. And part of him, the same pragmatic, analytical side of him that an hour earlier would have argued that there were no such things as magic and witches, now refused to dismiss the powerful evidence of his own senses as an herb-induced delusion. It was too vivid, too real—the mere thought of it brought the whole experience back in a chilling wave of total, nerve-tingling recall.

  But even as the cold air and his returning reason sobered him, he could not escape the feeling that he had seen the old ladies up to something strange and unearthly in that room at the top of the stairs. His recollections were too strong, too unexpected, too compelling. Now there was nothing for it but to stay and to prove it to the prickly Miss Edgethorn. He scoured the darkness around him, then crept with exaggerated stealth back to his borrowed room, vowing to get to the bottom of it.

  The next morning dawned cool and gloriously sunny. When Phoebe, Caroline, and Flora collected in the family dining room for breakfast, Flora could scarcely contain her news.

  "I finished it… the perfume," she announced with hushed excitement. "And I put it in her favorite decanter, the one she always uses, on her dressing table."

  "Perfume?" Phoebe snorted irritably, wriggling about in her chair to give Flora a narrow look. "You mean love potion."

  "Most certainly not a love potion," Flora declared huffily, lifting her chin. "I prefer to think of it as a sort of human catnip."

  Phoebe harrumphed and folded her arms over her chest.

  "Well, I say we have to enhance the natural electricity between them—make the sparks really fly!" Caroline insisted, making small explosions with her hands. "By tomorrow my new coils and electrical enhancers will be ready. A few in his collar and belt and boots…" Her calculating gaze drifted toward the sun-filled window as she worked at some mental computation. "To get a proper circuit, I'll have to put a few in Mimi's corset stays as well." She paused, men came back to the present with a crafty smile. "We can have them matched and mated in a matter of days."

  "Coi
ls and catnip," Phoebe grumbled disparagingly. "And what if his bumps aren't compatible with hers?"

  "You had a chance to feel his head last night," Caroline hissed.

  "He woke up before I even got past his regions of 'causality' and 'eventuality,'" Phoebe declared petulantly. "Flora didn't put enough herbs in his toddy. Heaven knows if the fellow has any 'agreeability' or 'suavity' in him at all."

  Just at that moment, Miranda came into the dining room and greeted them with a thoughtful look, which melted to an affectionate smile. As she dropped a kiss on each of their upturned cheeks, they exchanged expectant looks. She was wearing Flora's "human catnip."

  Mimi felt their eyes on her as she settled in her chair across the table from Aunt Flora, but she didn't give it much thought. The unthinkable events of the previous night were still tumbling about in her head… a lunatic solicitor raving about dancing witches. She had fully intended to tell her old aunts about Mister Hamilton's disgraceful behavior and accusations to counter their misguided generosity toward him. But she discarded the idea the minute she set foot in the dining room. Aunt Caroline, rail-straight and dignified; Aunt Phoebe, apple-cheeked and energetic; and Aunt Flora, soft-eyed and ladylike… she simply couldn't bring herself to worry them or to hurt their feelings by repeating his outrageous charges against them. She would just have to take care of Mister Hamilton and his wretched accusations by herself.

  "Mimi, dear." Aunt Caroline's voice called her back to the present. She looked up to find her old aunts studying her over their teacups. "We've been thinking that perhaps with Mister Hamilton here we should observe a few of the amenities. Dress for dinner… that sort of thing. He's probably used to London ways and doing things quite up to snuff. Perhaps it will help if he sees that we've brought you up to proper standards."

  Mimi sighed, thinking that a few formalities and dressing for dinner would hardly change Mister Hamilton's unreasonable prejudice against them. But she didn't want to upset the old dears. "I suppose that means I'll have to wear my blue velvet. And a corset." She winced as she refilled her cup from the large silver teapot in the middle of the table. "And you know how I dislike corsets."

  Above her head, Aunt Caroline sent the others a supremely satisfied smile.

  Moments later, Graham Hamilton appeared in the dining room doorway, looking collected and determined as he surveyed the sunlit room, his recalcitrant client, and her three larcenous—and perhaps sorcerous—old aunts. He had somehow managed to fall asleep after his bizarre midnight encounters and had awakened to find his clothing—cleaned, starched, and pressed to perfection—laid out meticulously on the side of his bed. He had risen and dressed, feeling fortified by each piece of clothing he donned. There was nothing like a good stiff collar, he mused, to give a fellow a reassuring sense of orderliness and self-control.

  His first order of business, he had decided, was to find that wretched witches' lair—to verify what he'd seen. He stepped out of his room and followed his recollections down the hallway toward the other wing of the house. He was just past the stairs, looking for that iron-bound door, when the hulking manservant stepped directly into his path. Hamilton recoiled and reddened under the fellow's unblinking glare.

  "I was just looking for…" He drew himself up straighter. "If you will just direct me to your mistresses…" But the formidable servant simply crossed his arms over his chest and stared. Hamilton could do nothing but back away and plan to continue his search another time.

  "There you are," he now addressed the foursome with a brush of his once more immaculate cuffs. "I hope I'm not late. I asked your man where to find you"—he motioned to Shaddar, who stood near the kitchen doors wearing his customary air of inscrutability—"but he declined to answer."

  "Shaddar… doesn't speak," Mimi declared in clipped, accusing tones.

  "Oh." He reddened slightly, then raised his square chin and resumed his air of superiority.

  Mimi expelled an irritable breath and set her fork down hard, as if to declare that his presence had put her off her appetite. How dared the man show up at their table with such a lofty and disagreeable attitude, after his absurd behavior last night?

  At the old aunts' invitation, Hamilton joined them at the linen-draped table and was soon savoring a cup of strong, flavorful tea and spooning mounds of fluffy eggs, smoky kippers, and sweet clotted cream onto his plate. Avoiding Mimi's resentful looks, he quietly scrutinized the old ladies in the bright sunlight for traces of deception or disguise— and found none. They were the same wizened countenances he had seen in the ill-lit drawing room the previous night. When they inquired after his health, he assured them that he had rested well, that his appetite was undiminished, and that the food was quite tasty. A moment later, Shaddar circled the table with a plate of fresh scones, stirring the air in the sun-warmed room… and Hamilton stopped dead, a forkful of egg suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth.

  Something curled tantalizingly through his sense of smell—something both sweet and spicy, something delicious and yet not quite edible. He quietly sniffed the eggs, then lifted a buttery scone to his nose, then the jam pot, his teacup, and finally even one of the smoked kippers. Frowning, he looked around the table and saw no flowers, no fruit bowl, nothing that he could identify as the source of that faint whiff of paradise. His face darkened. Paradise? He sat straighter in his chair and dismissed it with an irritable breath… which brought him another teasing waft of that intriguing scent.

  He sucked in a deep draft of air, and the smell filled his head, his lungs… faint but entire and compelling. What in heaven's name was it? His nostrils flared, and he sniffed in first one direction, then in another, so absorbed in the pursuit that he didn't even notice the way the old ladies were staring at him. It was something like flowers… but with an irresistible undertone of spice that made his mouth water. It expanded in his sense of smell and began to spill over into his other senses. Velvety… it was richly textured and velvety. And golden… the color of goldenrod and buttercups…

  Jaw set and eyes glowing, he inhaled over and over, growing light-headed from taking in too much air. All he could think about was locating the source of that marvelous smell, and he concentrated so fiercely on it, he didn't even hear the old ladies' questions.

  But Mimi had heard. And she'd watched his face growing darker and his eyes growing hotter as he deigned not to respond to their polite inquiries about his family. She'd watched the indignant flaring of his nostrils and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The way his eyes darted about the table and the room, he seemed to be tallying the silver and linen, the elegant old walnut sideboard, and the crystal chandelier on some mental ledger, as evidence of her aunts' larceny. It was more than she could endure. She threw her wadded napkin on the table and pushed up from her chair.

  "I'll be in the study, whenever Mister Hamilton is ready to begin," she informed her aunts. Then she turned and sailed out, carrying the source of Hamilton's distraction with her.

  Suddenly that entrancing scent was gone, and Hamilton found himself sitting with his knuckles white and his heart pounding as if he'd just finished a footrace. When he looked up, he found the three old ladies gazing at him with curious frowns, and he reddened to the roots of his hair. Ye gods— get hold of yourself, Hamilton. By the end of a second calming breath, he had seized control of his own senses once again—just in time to hear Miss Phoebe say, "Our Mimi keeps all the estate books and records, Mister Hamilton. She will show you everything you need, after breakfast."

  At Miss Caroline's request, the great, sinewy manservant led him through the house to a small study located just off the drawing room which he had seen the previous night. He paused outside the door to glance around the large, high-ceilinged room that had seemed so outlandish to him the night before. Heavy brocade drapes had been opened at the far end of the room, revealing massive leaded windows which admitted sunlight in abundance. In the brightness, everything looked a bit worn and faded, but surprisingly ordinary; the s
tone carvings that held up the huge mantelpiece looked more like cherubs than gargoyles, and the portraits on the walls looked more dignified than sinister. He tugged at his stiff, fortifying collar and entered the study.

  It was a small room, lined with shelves which were filled with books and stacks of paper and an occasional stuffed bird and antique wooden globe. A great, battered rolltop desk stuffed with papers dominated one wall, and two faded red parlor chairs and a heavy oak table occupied much of the rest of the floor space. And in the center of it all, standing with her chin tucked and her expressive lips forming a succulent pout, was Miranda Edgethorn.

  The sunlight coming from the window behind her sent rivulets of fire through her auburn curls and transformed her skin into luminous pearl. She wore a fitted, sage-green challis dress with a white silk collar and cuffs, and a supple, draped skirt and demi-bustle. She was an impossibly appealing combination of business and pleasure, vulnerability and threat. And suddenly he caught a whiff of that scent again…

  Mimi felt as well as saw his entrance into the room; his forceful presence seemed to push all the air out of her lungs. Bracing against the desk behind her, she waved him to a seat in one of the stuffed parlor chairs. When he shook his head, the room got noticeably smaller.

  She hadn't anticipated how unsettling it would be, closeted with him in these confined quarters. Her cheeks began to flush, and her heartbeat quickened as she carried a stack of ledgers to the table and opened the drawers of the desk and an adjoining cabinet to reveal boxes stuffed with due bills and receipts, all done up in bundles with ribbons tied just so.

  "First, I suppose I should explain how I keep records. You see, I record everything in columns… all of our income here." She opened the top book and dragged a slender finger down the sparsely inked columns on one side of the page and the densely filled rows on the other. "And our expenditures over here. Then I sort and categorize all due bills and list them on a separate sheet for each month—a sort of summary." She held up a sheet of paper on which categories and amounts had been listed in feminine script. His eyes had widened as she spoke, and now his jaw flexed and his hands curled into fists at his sides.