Grinning, Ewen executed an exaggerated bow on her behalf. “Has Drogo kidnapped you and buried you alive out here?”
Sarah pouted prettily. “Mother threatened to dispossess me if I poisoned one more suitor, so I ran away. Only Drogo doesn’t trust me to run by myself.”
Impatiently, Drogo started up the stairs his stepsister had just descended. “You invited yourself, as I remember. Something about the planets being in the wrong house. I offered to send you to Brighton to find a husband instead.”
“I don’t want a husband,” she called after him. “And we’re all getting entirely too old for you to tell us what to do, Drogo Ives. What will you do when you don’t have us to coddle any longer?”
“Watch after all the Ives bastards my brothers beget, I imagine.” Ignoring Sarah’s not-so-subtle jibe, Drogo led Ewen up the stairs into his tower study. He reached for the pen on his desk and glared at his brother. “How much?”
Along with an assortment of strings, coins, gears, and other mysterious objects, Ewen produced a scribbled list from his coat pocket and handed it over as he stubbornly pursued the more personal subject. “Even my bastards have mothers to coddle them. We’re not all as irresponsible as our father. We can take care of any brats we produce.”
“Fine then. The next time you produce one I won’t increase your allowance.” Sitting at his desk, Drogo scanned the list of supplies, sighed, and dipped his pen into the inkwell. It was a damned good thing he knew how to manage money better than his father had, or their continually growing family would all be starving in the street by now. Despite Ewen’s fine protests, Drogo already supported two of his handsome brother’s by-blows.
A shame none of his half-dozen younger brothers had learned the trick of high finance, or keeping their breeches buttoned.
***
Frowning, Ninian shut her grandmother’s storybook and left it on the front parlor table. She shouldn’t have opened it. She should forget last night’s encounter with Lord Ives and not be looking at a childhood tale embroidered by generations of Malcolm women. Malcolms had odd talents, but even her grandmother couldn’t cause natural disasters. Of course, there was that time Aunt Hermione had soured all the milk…
Ridiculous. That was coincidence. Much of her grandmother’s power had been common manipulating, like telling Gertrude the lavender love charm would win Harry’s heart, when all it did was instill confidence in a girl hampered by shyness.
Just because somewhere in the mists of time a Malcolm and an Ives had made an unhappy match did not mean she had to believe all Ives caused disasters. She still didn’t have a right to think about a man with three wives.
This was an age of naturalism. Lord Ives wouldn’t believe in legends, or witches.
Sighing, Ninian slipped from the cottage into the profusion of plants spilling over her garden. By starting seeds inside early, she had bay leaves big enough to harvest, mint thick around her ankles, columbine and foxglove blooming in glorious abundance in every nook and cranny. Plants, she knew how to handle. Men—it was best not to think of them.
***
Ninian poured a spoonful of honeyed willow bark water down young Matthew’s throat. It wasn’t as effective as the agrimony, but she wasn’t yet prepared to admit that the source of half her herbs had mysteriously gone bad. As soon as she left here, she needed to examine the stream in daylight.
“The earl grabbed Nate’s jerkin and carried him off. I don’t have any idea what he said to him.” Ninian related the prior night’s events to Matthew’s mother, Mary, as she persuaded more medicine down the boy’s throat.
“Good gracious,” Mary exclaimed. “The earl must be a very strong man to drag Nate anywhere.”
“Taller, but no heavier, I think. Nate was drunk.” Making faces back at Matthew until he giggled, Ninian wiped his mouth and tucked his covers more securely around him, basking in the gratitude and love he radiated.
It seemed cruel that she could never have a family of her own when she had so much to offer. Her heart ached, but she told herself that God must have His reasons.
“You are not interested in the man, are you?” Mary asked with suspicion. “You know what the legend says about Malcolm and Ives destroying the land.”
Ninian shrugged and tucked away her jar of medicine. “If he has three wives, he certainly has no interest in me. He’ll be gone back to his city life soon enough.”
“They say the castle once belonged to Malcolms,” Mary said slyly.
“So? The cottage I have is much too big for me as it is. What would I do with an entire castle?”
“Have balls and servants,” Mary dreamed aloud, apparently giving up her suspicion for the moment. “Dance all night and drink chocolate all day.”
“And if I did that, who would make the willow bark for Matthew’s throat?” Ninian asked pragmatically and finished packing her basket with the jars of salve and medicine.
“Well, there is that,” Mary agreed. “Still, your mother must have had grand gowns and pretty lace and danced all night. You could have the same.”
“Yes, and my mother died young.” Covering the basket, Ninian stood and brushed down her old wool skirt, unadorned with so much as an inch of lace or a bit of embroidery. She preferred it that way.
She’d been only ten when her mother had died after the last of a series of miscarriages. Granny had warned that Malcolms could only bear their babes in Wystan, and Ninian’s aunts had all dutifully done so. Not Ninian’s mother. She’d birthed Ninian here, then gaily immersed herself in London’s frivolities, denying her heritage and never returning to the place of her birth.
It was a tale Ninian had heard often, though she believed the reported “tradition” of returning to Wystan to give birth was her wily grandmother’s way of controlling rich and powerful daughters who had strayed too far into the heathen life of London society.
Her grandmother’s admonitions hadn’t been necessary for Ninian. As curious as she might be of the roles of wives and mothers, as much as she loved children and wished for one of her own, she’d known for years that her place was in Wystan, where she was needed, where she was comfortable. As interesting as she found Lord Ives, he was still an Ives, and no temptation at all. Almost no temptation at all.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can’t dress as pretty as Lord Ives’s ladies,” Mary said as she walked Ninian to the door. “Two of them visited Hattie’s last week, and I’ve never seen anything so elegant.”
“If they’re reduced to buying Hattie’s caps, they won’t be elegant for long,” Ninian observed. “She’s nearly too blind to see the stitches these days. And it rained all last week. Surely they did not drag their best silks and laces through the mud?” Ninian retained fond memories of her mother’s silk and laces, but it had been over a decade since she’d outgrown the last of hers. They were useless in this cold, damp climate, and she’d never considered buying more, although she could have all the silk she wanted, if she’d wanted it. Which she didn’t.
“I suppose you’re right, but did you never dream of other places, Ninian?”
As a child, she’d seen other places, and chosen Wystan, but Ninian didn’t try to explain that to Mary. Granny had called Ninian an emotional weather vane, buffeted by whatever winds of passion brewed nearby. The explosive emotions of London’s immense populace had often disoriented her and spun her like a whirligig. She preferred the isolation of Wystan, a quiet world that she knew and understood.
Saying her farewells, Ninian swept out of the cottage with every intention of exploring the mystery of the barren burn. If Lord Ives only walked the night, he wouldn’t know if she trespassed during the day.
Two women with their silk-covered panniers flapping in the breeze stood in the village square, hanging on to their preposterously wide straw hats and arguing with Harry, the shoemaker. Ninian blinked in astonishment at the bewig
ged apparitions. They couldn’t have been more out of place in this simple village had they rode in on elephants.
Glancing around, she wasn’t certain whether to be relieved or disappointed that she saw no sign of Lord Ives. Perhaps he really did only appear at night.
Imagining the ladies’ difficulty in explaining what they wanted to unimaginative Harry, Ninian smiled wider. She could not understand why the taciturn Lord Ives would want two magpies for wives, much less three, and she certainly wouldn’t carry that thought as far as the others had. His sleeping arrangements weren’t her concern. Remembering the odd warmth she’d felt in his lordship’s proximity, she didn’t pursue that avenue either.
As she hurried down the path into the woods, she didn’t worry about dirtying her practical leather shoes. Rural fashion appealed to her. The big pocket of her apron held all the herbs and plants she liked without need of tying pockets inside her homespun skirt, and her petticoat wouldn’t carry her off in the wind like a giant kite as surely panniers and all that trailing silk would.
Musing on wires and silks and kites, she reached the burn much sooner than expected—and stopped short at the sight of Lord Ives a few feet away, poking his walking stick in the dead debris.
Amid the gray shadows of new leaves and clouds, he appeared nearly as formidable as he had last night. Tall, garbed in unfashionable black, and unsmiling, he frowned at Ninian’s approach.
“The soil is coated with a malodorous slime,” he said to her.
Shaken but undeterred by his presence, Ninian dipped down to examine the soil more closely. She rubbed her fingers in it, then sniffed them. “Sulfur?”
“Quite possibly.”
She didn’t sense his surprise at her knowledge so much as see it in the slight uplifting of dark brows. Lord Ives had most disconcertingly dark and piercing eyes, with thick eyebrows that curled upward at the ends. She couldn’t call him a handsome man, so much as a compelling one. Her stomach lurched uncertainly at the intelligence staring back at her, intelligence she craved in a companion.
She hastily tested the soil again. “Sulfur, and something else.” Thoughtfully, she wiped her fingers on her apron and gazed in dismay at the brown leaves and crumbling foliage that had once been a fairy garden of emerald hues. “It’s as if it has been blasted by the devil,” she murmured.
“More likely a type of acid, unless you prefer to search me for horn and tails.”
His tone was as dry as the brittle leaves they walked upon, and Ninian warmed in appreciation of his humor. She glanced up, and her smile faltered beneath the impact of his intense stare. She didn’t want to look away.
Taking a deep breath, she broke his spell. “I have already explained to the villagers that horns and tails do not fit well under silks and wigs.” Daringly, she lifted an eyebrow at his unadorned black hair. “Although surely they can see for themselves that you are hiding nothing in that department.”
He shrugged and returned to poking at the rocks along the bank. “I shouldn’t think sulfur a naturally occurring chemical in water.”
Reminded of her place, Ninian pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “Then I must explore and see where this blight begins.”
“So you can cast a spell upon it?”
“Or wave my magic wand,” she replied airily, striking out upstream.
“I think not.” He caught her elbow and drew her back.
The spring air warmed around her, and heat sang through her veins. She didn’t know whether to respond with interest or panic, but heeding her grandmother’s more practical warnings about men, she pulled away.
Unable to read the earl’s thoughts or emotions, she studied his harsh features for answers. He had a sharp blade of a nose, a stiff, stern jaw, vestiges of laugh lines around his eyes, and a sensuous curve to his upper lip that particularly captivated her. Masculine interest flared in his eyes at her scrutiny.
Shaken, she returned to their argument. “You cannot stand guard over the entire stream, day and night.”
“I will send someone better prepared to walk these woods alone.” He glanced pointedly at her diminutive figure. “It’s my property. When the source of the blight is found, I’ll deal with it as I deem appropriate.”
Anger simmering, she hid it behind disarming dimples. “Not with witch’s incantations? How unspirited of you.”
His dark brows drew into a V. “There is no such thing as magic.”
“Of course, there isn’t,” she soothed. “I’m sure there’s a purely natural reason for the stream to die and a thoroughly natural solution. I’ll just consult a few trees, shall I?”
Her skirts swung tauntingly as she walked off. An unexpected beam of sunlight shot through the screen of clouds and leaves to catch on her golden ringlets, reminding the earl with a shock of her ability to recognize an intruder concealed by shrubbery.
Perhaps she just had uncanny eyesight.
Her challenge awoke an unholy curiosity in him that wasn’t entirely intellectual but heated his blood far more than was good for either of them.
Three
Staring at the night sky, Drogo adjusted the telescope on his desk, tried to jot a note, and cursing the dry quill, dipped it in an inkwell. He should hire a secretary.
He didn’t want a secretary. These few moments he hoarded for himself were the only pure pleasure he possessed in a life of constant demands. People always asked too much of him, and secretaries were people. Besides, it was too late to hire anyone. His business with the coal mine was almost done, and he doubted if he would linger in the area another week.
Adjusting the telescope one final time, he grunted in satisfaction, and bending nearer the flickering candle, he noted the location and date of the celestial object he’d observed. He was almost certain he’d found a hitherto unknown planet. He needed better equipment. And more time for his studies.
He could buy the equipment. Time was more difficult to obtain.
After carefully sanding his notes and placing them in his leather folio, he looked up and caught a glimpse of another project he’d started out of curiosity stirred by a forest nymph. He didn’t generally waste time listening to women, nymphs or not, but she’d engaged his intellect in the puzzle of the blighted stream.
Drogo wandered to the tower windows he’d had installed upon his arrival. This far north of London’s smoke and fog the vista of starlit firmament spread out before him as far as heaven itself—as distant as the peace he craved.
Briefly, he wondered what it would be like without the responsibilities of his title, to come and go as he pleased, to act on impulse without thought to consequences. He might as well picture life without his half-dozen younger brothers. He didn’t have the imagination for it. He did what was necessary and savored these rare moments of quiet when they appeared.
The moon was waning, but its silver light poured over the ancient forest below, returning his thoughts to the moon maiden. More than enchanting; she fascinated him—he supposed because of the night and the moon and his own curiosity.
Mostly, women were a mysterious other world to him, one of soft fragrances and whispery silks and incomprehensible giggles. He enjoyed the sensual pleasures when he visited their world, but he wasn’t likely to linger among them. They weren’t logical and didn’t provide sufficient intellectual stimulus. The baffling moon maiden hadn’t provided silks and giggles, but she’d stirred his interest. Odd.
He glanced down at the experiment the encounter had inspired. He’d set out pots of grass he’d dug from the yard. He’d watered half the pots with liquid from the dying burn and half with water from the castle well. All the grass looked seriously unhappy.
The witch would no doubt tell him his own malaise blighted the plants.
Grimacing at that illogical thought, Drogo watered the plants again. Witches. In this day and age. Silly, superstitious twits.
&nb
sp; A corner of his mouth turned up as he remembered her flapping her sleeves and terrifying the bumpkin, Nate, into flight. He’d often wished he had that ability. Maybe he could hire her to stand on the tower stairs and terrify the castle inhabitants into leaving him alone.
Too late for tonight though. He heard the patter of feminine feet on the stone even as he thought it. He swore they knew the instant he rose from his desk. Maybe all women were witches. His limited experience would certainly indicate something decidedly hellish about them upon occasion.
“Drogo!” The door burst open on Sarah’s usual breathless note. “Come quickly! I swear, the ghost is walking. Hurry!”
He did no such thing. He tilted his head, heard the sound of the wind picking up, and looked at his stepsister with disfavor. “The branches are rubbing the windows again. Don’t be such a goose, Sarah.”
“Don’t be such a stubborn ass, Drogo!” Several years younger than he, but a widow now and far more worldly-wise than she ought to be, Sarah tossed her powdered head of curls. “There’s moaning, and footsteps, and I swear, something crashed. Claudia is in hysterics, and Lydie could go into labor any minute out of sheer fright.”
The thought of Lady Lydie in labor frightened Drogo more than any threat of haunts. Why the devil had he let them follow him here?
Because Sarah’s mother had thought her daughter safer away from society’s wagging tongues after she’d nearly poisoned her last suitor with one of her witch’s brews. At the time, he hadn’t anticipated his stepsister bringing along an unwed mother and an unhappy companion. The potential for trouble was enormous, which was one of the reasons why he’d sent Ewen away. Of course, his brother’s invention of a “ghost-catcher” that had crashed through the ceiling in the middle of the night had speeded his departure.
Drogo was used to dealing with his brothers. He wasn’t used to dealing with women and babies. Definitely not babies. He’d expected to be far gone before Lydie delivered.
Merely Magic Page 3
