Merely Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “You’ll freeze,” he admonished, rising to throw a few more coals on the brazier. Blood surged to his groin at just the sight of her, and he knew damned well Sarah’s silly potion had worn off hours ago.

  “I did not mean to disturb your studies,” she said primly, not flinching as he halted in front of her. He knew his size and possibly his station intimidated her, but she seemed to have no sense of vulnerability, even after the pain he’d inflicted on her. She drew a deep breath and daringly met his eye. “Why did you leave my bed?”

  The demands began already, but he supposed he owed her an explanation. “Because I no longer had the excuse of too much drink should I ravish you again.” She had such a bright and open expression that it blinded him. He couldn’t tell what went on in the diverting byways of her mind.

  She met his gaze steadily. “You wanted to ravish me again?”

  “Repeatedly,” he agreed grimly.

  Drogo might have believed Sarah’s potion responsible for the remarkable experience they shared, but he’d just spent hours in a cold tower with nothing but mathematical equations dancing through his head, and the instant Ninian walked in the room, he wanted her again. As he had since Beltane.

  He’d never needed a woman as he hungered for this one, and he didn’t like the knowledge. He preferred controlling his environment and not the reverse.

  Pacing, he wrestled with the illogic of the situation. He hadn’t thought himself so crass as to be aroused by the power of total possession. Even as he thought that, he turned to watch the vivid expressions fleeting across her face and wanted her more.

  She didn’t have the grace to look mollified at his admission but continued challenging him with wariness. “Do you fear bewitchment?”

  Startled, Drogo choked on a laugh. Turning more fully to admire her, he dipped his gaze to the place where her blanket slipped and the moon’s light illuminated the pearl of her breasts. “I’m not a superstitious man,” he reminded her. “I only feared harming you further.”

  “I am not harmed.”

  To his astonishment and deep, abiding pleasure, she dropped the blanket and stepped from its folds, blessing him with the sight of firm curves draped only in candleglow.

  “I will warn you, though, that you will get no heirs from me. Malcolm women only bear girls.”

  “Once, there must have been a Malcolm man to lend you his name.” The spurious debate over his nonexistent children had no importance to him. He’d come to terms with that long ago. He had not had time to come to terms with the witch’s charms. Drogo reached for her, dragging her from the cold floor so they saw eye to eye, glorying in her responsiveness. “Do not cry rape come morning,” he warned.

  She wrapped her rounded arms around his neck and pressed his lips with a kiss he’d taught her, then added a mischievous lick of her own. “So long as you do not,” she agreed.

  Laughing for the first time in months, Drogo carried her downstairs to his chamber, where he could plant himself between soft thighs, heedless of the consequences.

  An ardent student, she responded with alacrity to his lessons. He taught her so well, he actually forgot the stars and slept.

  ***

  Ninian woke to the sun blazing in the west window of a strange chamber. Groggy with more than the prior evening’s heavy wine, she winced and covered her eyes. Other aches replaced the one in her head. Her cheeks and breasts burned with a fiery rash. Her nipples ached. She never noticed her nipples. She peeked from beneath her arm to stare down at them in amazement where they purled tight in the cool air, ready for plucking.

  The soreness deep between her thighs jerked her more fully to consciousness. She had done it. She had mated with Lord Ives. It hadn’t been a vivid dream after all.

  How odd. Her hand drifted over her belly but hesitated before dipping lower. He’d taught her the temptation of Eve. She knew her Bible well. Granny had insisted on it. But couldn’t he be Adam rather than Satan? Must witches always be cursed by devils?

  Remembering the bright fire of passion in the earl’s eyes, the shadows of a harsh jaw, the way raven hair fell forward as he pumped into her, she couldn’t say yea or nay. If she’d been possessed by a demon, he was kindlier than most. He’d covered her thoroughly in his rich blankets and set a fire burning in the grate.

  Of course, demons were experts on fire. She giggled as she gave into the ridiculousness of her superstition. She was as bad as the villagers. Lord Ives had blighted nothing but her virginity, and that was no loss.

  Her head spun as she sat up, and she steadied herself against the mattress. The result of too much wine and whatever foolish aphrodisiac Sarah had introduced into both wine and food, she surmised. Whatever on earth had possessed the silly woman to push her into bed with his lordship?

  Well, it didn’t matter now. It wasn’t the end of the earth if she carried his child. The Malcolm trust fund ensured that no Malcolm female ever need go hungry. She could easily raise a daughter in the same way she had been raised. Her father might rant and rave over the injustice of it, but Malcolm women took care of their own.

  A daughter. She smiled at the thought. She’d never considered an infant of her own before. She’d best start thinking about it now.

  The dizziness didn’t entirely dissipate once she washed in the warm water simmering over the grate and dressed in the clothes someone had thoughtfully provided. Unlike the extravagant evening gowns and panniers the ladies had dressed her in, these garments were of a practical nature. She fingered the delicate lawn chemise and lovely soft blue wool. Lord Ives probably thought he was providing for the comfort of a mistress. He wouldn’t be happy once she persuaded him otherwise.

  She needed to return to the people for whom her Gift was intended, to the village, where she belonged.

  Wishing for a good birch bark tea to ease her aches, Ninian traipsed down the tower stairs to gather her things. She wished she could dally, but she knew the joining of Ives and Malcolm would bear a high price. She dare not risk the suffering described in the legends.

  That Drogo could easily torment her, she had no doubt.

  She debated bidding him farewell but decided it best not to disturb his studies again. The women would tell him soon enough.

  She descended the stairs carrying her bag, fully expecting an argument should anyone see her in the hall. But the day was fine, and she had strong legs. She could walk the distance home. She didn’t need anyone’s help.

  She hadn’t expected all three women to be sitting around the fire, waiting for her. Perhaps it was well past noon, but she didn’t consider herself of such importance that anyone would expect her company. They all looked up and watched her with interest as she crossed the flagstones.

  “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?” Lydie inquired brightly as Ninian approached. “We’ve only just begun to search the library.”

  “You should not be climbing stairs,” Ninian reminded her sternly.

  She laughed and held a hand to her bulging belly. “I expect to be delivered of him any day, and if climbing stairs brings him sooner, I’ll not complain.”

  “He may not be in a proper position if you deliver him sooner. For the child’s sake as well as your own, stay upstairs.” Ninian nodded to Sarah and Lady Twane. “You must see she obeys. I am not always available when a child decides to arrive.”

  “Oh, but of course you will be,” Claudia said with dismay. “You’ll be right here. You can’t go anywhere yet.”

  Patiently, Ninian tried to dispel that foolishness. “I have a mother about to deliver in the village. When Lydie’s time comes, if you send the cart, I’ll be here in time.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Sarah replied airily. “We’ve sent word to the village so they know where to find you.”

  A small shiver of fear shook Ninian’s spine. Were all of London nobility this selfish? If so,
how had her mother tolerated them? Remembering her grandmother’s curses of her father and his friends, she wondered if she should have listened more closely. “It is not so simple as that,” she explained cautiously. “I have my garden to tend, herbs to dry, things I cannot do here.”

  Claudia brightened. “We’ll ask Drogo to rebuild that old conservatory you were working on. You could grow all sorts of marvelous plants there. It will be lovely having our own apothecary in residence.”

  The thought of that conservatory was tempting. She could grow tender plants she had only heard about, plants that could be very useful… Ninian shook her head as she recognized temptation when she saw it. Perhaps the ladies were the devil’s handmaidens, rather than Drogo. “No, thank you very much, but I must go.”

  Sarah stood and hugged her. “I am sorry to hear that, dear, but you really cannot leave, you know. After that last foolish chit got herself pregnant by another man and declared the child Drogo’s, we simply cannot put him through that again. We must prove to him that any child you carry is his, beyond any possibility of doubt. We cannot do that if you go into the village.”

  Stunned, Ninian thought she had not heard her rightly. She sifted her brain for the proper response for something she couldn’t have heard.

  “He’s gone into the village to check on the storm damage,” Claudia offered. “I’m sure he’ll bring back any news.”

  Ninian didn’t know what his lordship’s relation was with these three women, but she didn’t intend to be one of them. She didn’t need the approval of a man who already had three wives. Or mistresses. Or whatever they were.

  Smiling falsely, she nodded. “I’ll wait for him then.”

  Accepting a scone and tea, she ate unhurriedly, then returned upstairs with her bag, leaving the ladies chattering of researching the library. Instead of dropping her bundle in her room, she slipped down the hall, found the servants’ stairs, and descended to the kitchen, easily retracing her path to the conservatory. Within minutes, she was in the woods and on her way home.

  Evidence of the storm’s havoc surrounded her as she picked her way over fallen trees and trudged through mud and puddles large enough to be ponds. Perhaps the heavy rain would have cleared the stream, and vegetation could return again.

  Hurrying to investigate the damage to the village, Ninian stepped off the beaten path into the overgrown jungle of the woods. She knew her directions well, and she didn’t fear the fairies as the villagers did. If fairies were actually spirits waiting to be reborn, as her grandmother’s tales said, they could scarcely harm a living person.

  She’d welcome their guidance right now. She’d just given herself to a man she could never marry, a man whose odd company of women thought to hold her prisoner for his sake, or for the sake of his purely imaginary heir. Really! Sarah had been reading entirely too many medieval romances in that library. Ninian wasn’t certain which of them had run mad—the ladies for dreaming up this scheme or herself for falling into it.

  She wondered if Sarah might have found stories about Malcolm women in her library and if that might be why she’d sought Ninian out. Surely any legend would relate the disaster of Ives joined with Malcolm. Sarah couldn’t be so meanspirited as to…

  Ninian halted beneath a rowan tree on the edge of a glade she’d never crossed before. Sunlight danced on a fairy ring in the dew-laden grass, and sensing a presence she could not see, she hesitated, her fingers digging into the rowan’s bark.

  The instant her hand touched the bark, something moved inside her, just as Lord Ives had last night.

  Gasping, she released the bark, and her hand flew to cover the space between her hips. Recalling how Lord Ives had kneeled above her last night, claiming her as his own, she murmured a hurried protective incantation. Surely they couldn’t have created a child in one night. But if they had… Her grandmother had been right about the fairies. A spirit had just been reborn within her.

  She looked down at the place her hand protected. A child? Mother of all that was holy…

  A Malcolm, the wind whispered. As long as there were Malcolms in Wystan, there would be Malcolm witches.

  Lord Ives would call it superstitious folly. He was probably right. These were modern times. Fairies didn’t exist. But she felt what she felt, and alive with the knowledge, she skirted around the glade, pretending the quickening of her womb was no more than an aftereffect of the night’s passion.

  She had truly eaten of the fruit of folly.

  Granny had said denying her instincts denied her power. But instinct was so hard to prove…

  Detours around the debris scattered by the storm took more time than she’d anticipated, even with the shortcut. It was late afternoon before she arrived at the beloved picket fence of her garden. She frowned at the broken rose canes and the place where the old oak had lost a limb and smashed a fence post. Safe within solid stone walls, she hadn’t realized the storm’s severity. A broken oak was a bad omen.

  Caught by a frantic wail on the wind, Ninian fled through the gate and into the cottage. All seemed quiet.

  Her gaze fell on the storybook on the parlor table, its pages flipping lazily on an unseen current. As she watched, they fell open and lay still. She could have sworn she’d left it closed. In trepidation, she turned the book so she could read the page.

  “The child is a girl, my lord.”

  Lightning flashed through the mullioned window, illuminating the pallor of his lordship’s face as he heard the news.

  “Nonsense,” he said softly. “Ives only sire sons. You are mistaken.”

  His wife lovingly held out the whimpering bundle of blankets. “A daughter, my lord. A bonnie wee girl.”

  “Then it’s not mine.”

  “No-o-o-o,” the wind howled as he turned and strode out, never to be seen again.

  And his wife wept tears so long and so hard that the waters rose and the valley filled and the lands lay fallow for many years to come.

  The burn rose in times of flood…

  No longer denying instinct, suddenly frantic, Ninian raced toward town.

  Eleven

  What had she done? The legends warned of the dangers of Malcolms and Ives. They created havoc together—like the storm, she thought as she ran toward the village. She could see the damage all around her. The late-evening sun breaking through the overcast clouds didn’t warm her. Broken tree limbs loomed, anxious to grab her. The washed-out road threw obstacles in her path. She shivered as she saw a dead cow in the field and heard the rush of fast waters in the usually bubbling burn.

  A Malcolm and an Ives had mated and already, the blight spread and destroyed. She’d given into temptation, and the devil’s reward was already at hand. Her grandmother had been right. What had seemed so beautiful by moonlight, revealed its ugly face at dawn. This time instinct told her to be afraid.

  By the time she reached the village, Ninian wasn’t surprised when Gertrude grabbed her sisters and shoved them inside at her appearance. Nate’s father made the sign against the evil eye and slammed his door in her face.

  It’s too late.

  Mary. Mary wouldn’t turn her back on her. She’d taught Mary and her children their letters. Ninian had delivered her babies, nursed them in sickness, played with them in health. Mary couldn’t hate her.

  Cautiously, Ninian slipped around to the back. Mary’s cow nibbled at a muddy patch of grass amid the debris left by the swollen stream. A tall hedge hid her from prying eyes. Surely, if no one saw them…

  Mary peered cautiously around the door at Ninian’s knock. She almost slammed it before Ninian had the sense to shove her heavy shoe in the crack.

  “Mary, for the love of God! Tell me what’s wrong,” she pleaded.

  Hesitantly, Mary stood in the crack, blocking all access to her children. “You’ve been with Lord Ives, haven’t you?” she demanded. “Don’t you rememb
er the legends?”

  “I’ve been tending to a woman about to give birth! What are people saying about me?” But deep in her heart, she already knew. She’d always been one step away from their superstition.

  Ninian had tried diligently to play the part of simple healer, but the people in the village weren’t fools. While all was well and she helped the needy, they tolerated her. She could see with her own eyes that all was no longer well, and the dreaded word “witch,” had risen with last night’s wind.

  “There is sickness all over town,” Mary whispered harshly. “The stream turned into a river and washed out our livestock and our homes and tore down all that we’ve built. Don’t tell me the legends aren’t true!”

  “Oh, my God, Mary! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Ninian scrubbed at her eyes, fighting terrified tears, but nothing could drive away the stabbing pain. She had done this. Somehow, she must make it right, but how? She still couldn’t believe what she’d done was wrong or that the earl and his household had any knowledge of witchery. It just wasn’t possible. She had no magic.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, panicking. “The earl has nothing to do with any of this. You must believe that. It has to be the stream. I’ve warned you…”

  Mary looked wary but didn’t turn away. “We’ve used that water for generations. It’s never turned on us before.”

  “I don’t know why. I need time… Please, Mary, what can I do?”

  “It’s better if you go back to the earl and his women—to your own kind,” Mary said, her earlier harshness softened.

  Glancing in horror at the gray cat wrapping itself around Ninian’s ankles, she slammed the door.

  Ninian had never known true loneliness until it blew through her like a winter wind now. Picking up the cat that had apparently followed her, she faltered under the loss of her only friend. She’d always known she was an outsider. She hadn’t arrived in Wystan until she was ten, but she’d thought the villagers had accepted her over the years because Malcolms had lived here since the dawn of time. The tenuousness of her acceptance was apparent. She didn’t belong anywhere. The emptiness of her life echoed hollow as she stared at the future ahead of her.