Merely Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “You never were in leading strings.” Joseph sprawled in a chair in the same fashion as Drogo. “You ran wild all the time.”

  “No more so than Paul,” David objected. “He needed caning—”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Drogo slammed the letter down and stood up. “I’m bringing Sarah back from Wystan. We may have guests. Tell Jarvis to prepare rooms. Tell your damned mother I’ll fund her visit to Scotland if she leaves by day after tomorrow.” He strode toward the door.

  “What about the nursery set?” Joseph yelled after him.

  “Sarah will want her children here. Open the nursery.”

  Drogo’s voice drifted through the darkened, empty halls of his London town house as he took the stairs two at a time.

  Beneath nearly identical dark curls, David and Joseph exchanged surprised looks. As far as they were aware, Drogo had never entered the neglected attic nursery since it had been furnished. Sarah and her children always stayed with their mother in London.

  A major Ives upheaval was afoot.

  ***

  Cursing his foolishness, cursing Sarah, cursing the lazy horses he’d hired at the last posting house and urging them faster, Drogo raced his carriage through the night.

  His terrified coachman had long since retired to the interior with a flask of gin. The lurching and swaying of the lumbering coach had nearly unseated the man more than once.

  Drogo didn’t miss his company. His own jumbled thoughts provided entertainment enough.

  He’d given up on Sarah’s letter. The only way he could determine the truth to his satisfaction was to confront the women personally. He knew Sarah could look him in the eye and blithely tell him entire books of lies. He was hoping the little lunatic was less sophisticated.

  He was hoping a damned lot more than that.

  As the night wore on and weariness crept in, he couldn’t believe he not only had the ability to still hope, but that he would be interested at all.

  He’d meant what he’d told Joseph. Marriage wasn’t for him. He’d given it considerable thought before Dunstan decided to marry. By that time, it had become morbidly apparent he hadn’t sired a single bastard on any woman who’d crossed his bed. Marrying for any reason but heirs was of no purpose. The family he had was sufficient proof that Ives weren’t meant for monogamy, love was nonexistent, and children were far overrated, or so he’d told himself, repeatedly.

  He didn’t need a wife. He didn’t need an heir.

  But what if he’d finally, after all these years, begot one?

  ***

  “Impossible!” he exploded as the three harpies all talked excitedly at once.

  “Impossible!” he declared later as he cornered Ninian in the privacy of her chamber and stared at her still slim waist. An explosion of fern fronds in the window behind her blurred the lines of her silhouette. Fern fronds?

  Instead of exploding with anger as she had every right to do—Sarah had actually locked her in to prevent her leaving—the golden-haired witch tapped her finger against her lips and eyed Drogo as if he were a particularly recalcitrant schoolboy. “Well, as a naturalist, you must know it’s not impossible. What we did results in babies.”

  He threw up his arms in exasperation and stormed through the room’s shadows. She’d pulled back the draperies to allow the meager sun through mullioned windows, but there wasn’t enough light in the world to enlighten this mess. And plants crowded what little light existed. “What we did is nothing I haven’t done ten thousand times before, and I’ve not made babies!”

  She remained curiously unperturbed by his belligerency.

  “If you’re saying it’s impossible after just one night… Ten thousand?” she inquired, diverted by the calculation. “Well, you might be right that it’s unusual after just one night, if the moon wasn’t in its proper phase, but unfortunately, it was. Not that I expect you to believe that,” she added blandly.

  Drogo swung around. “How very convenient.” He could swear the fern wrapped a frond around her shoulders to shelter her.

  She ignored his acidity and continued ticking off her list. “I suppose I could have gone into the village and seduced every man there after you left, which might make the child unlikely to be yours, but still, I wouldn’t call the child impossible.”

  “I can’t have children,” he said adamantly. He knew this as a fact. He’d experimented for years, without result. Not the result he craved, anyway.

  She showed no sympathy. “Well, since I haven’t been with any man but you, and I’m definitely experiencing every symptom of pregnancy known to womankind, you’ve either been misinformed, misled, or haven’t tried hard enough. Ten thousand times?” she repeated in wonder. Then shaking her head, continued, “Or would you prefer to believe I’m the victim of the second Immaculate Conception?”

  He wanted to throttle her. He’d been through this before, let his hopes soar, swung high with reckless abandon on joyous rainbows, only to have the clouds pulled out from under him. This time, he couldn’t see how she might have become pregnant by another. She’d been an innocent when he’d taken her, of that, he had no doubt. And from what he knew of her and the village and Sarah, she wouldn’t have lain with any other man. There must be another trick.

  “I’ve known women to claim they’re with child and then mysteriously lose it directly after they’ve gained what they wanted.”

  Offended, she drew herself rigid and glared. “I don’t want anything. I’m not the one who wrote you. But if it’s my word you doubt, I’ll be happy to retch up the contents of my stomach on you as many mornings as it takes to convince you.”

  Buffeted by their conflicting logics, Drogo stood bewildered in the face of her certainty. He’d thought her a simpleton, a pleasantly innocent miss with unpredictable moods. She didn’t seem quite so simple now, although her mood was definitely odd.

  With some trepidation, he eyed her stomach. She hadn’t dressed for the occasion, he noted wryly. She wore her usual apron stuffed with God-knew-what plants and dead leaves and a bulky homespun gown that revealed nothing. Perhaps her waist was a little thicker? Had her breasts always strained the seams of her bodice?

  “I’ll have a physician examine you when we reach London,” he decided coldly. He could see no alternative. He would have to go along with Sarah’s little farce until it played out. He couldn’t foresee any real danger to anything but his already jaded cynicism.

  Delicate, rounded eyebrows rose. “London? I think not, my lord. My child will be born here. Malcolms cannot bear safely anywhere else but Wystan.”

  “That’s a lot of superstitious claptrap,” he said scornfully, finally standing on firmer ground. “If you carry my child, as you claim, we’ll be married in a church, in London, with friends and family as witness. The child will be an Ives, not a Malcolm.”

  “The father’s name has no bearing on the matter.” Now that she’d won her point, she clasped and unclasped her hands, then turned to the plant-bedecked window. “I promised my grandmother I would not leave Wystan, and I certainly won’t marry an Ives.”

  Again, he wondered about her sanity. He’d just offered marriage, and he was quite certain she had just turned him down. Perhaps it was her way of driving a bargain.

  He hadn’t run herd on a pack of unruly siblings by losing his patience. Logic and reasoning always prevailed over emotional posturing. He took a deep breath and counted stars in his head.

  In calming his temper, he noticed delicate purple blooms on the plants she stroked. What plants bloomed this time of year?

  Shaking his head, he returned to the focus of his concentration. If there was any chance at all that Ninian carried his heir, he must have it verified immediately by a reputable physician. He’d do whatever it took to accomplish this.

  “You cannot bear a child alone,” he said, seeking an opening in her defenses. “Do y
ou have other relations you can call on?” He supposed, if a marriage came of this, he ought to know who to invite. The idea of marrying a lunatic, possibly into a family of lunatics, gave him pause. But he’d vowed not to do as his father had done. Any child of his would have a name, regardless of the mother.

  “My aunts,” she replied carelessly. “But I don’t need them. I’ll be fine here. I have a family trust fund.”

  “If we marry, you’ll have more than a trust fund,” he wheedled mercilessly. “You can have all of Wystan Castle, and more. But you must come to London first.”

  “No,” she replied quietly. “I cannot.”

  He’d driven himself without sleep for days, worn the ragged ends of hope and despair until they’d frayed through, and his patience slipped a notch at her stubbornness. “I cannot marry you here. There is no church.”

  “I don’t need a husband,” she said indifferently. “I suppose you needed to know you’ve sired a child.” She hesitated, and with great reluctance added, “And I suppose I cannot argue if you insist on giving her a name, since it would be for her good. But it could not be a real marriage. If you must insist on this absurdity, it can be done across the border in Scotland. It’s only a few miles away, and a church isn’t needed.” With a hint of irony, she added, “Not that Lord Ives needs any more wives.”

  He ignored her levity. “I’ll not let the lawyers eat away the estates after I die while my brothers dispute the legitimacy of my son because of a heathen wedding. It’s London and a church in front of all the witnesses of family, as befits an earl.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “It won’t be a son. You’re doomed to disappointment if that’s your desire, my lord.”

  “I’ve been doomed to disappointment all my life. If we leave now, we can reach London by week’s end.”

  She turned, and the desolation in her eyes nearly cracked Drogo’s hard heart wide open. Suddenly, she seemed no longer a helpless child, but a woman who knew far too much of life’s dark secrets.

  “I am a witch, my lord. And not a very good one at that. Why would you take me for wife?”

  Drogo thought it might be a test of some sort. He couldn’t see any other logical reason for so illogical a question. He really didn’t want to believe the brain behind the beauty was cracked. “You’re a beautiful woman, and you carry my child,” he offered.

  “I’m far less beautiful than Sarah’s ladies, and any woman can carry a child. Send your women to me, and I’ll advise them of the proper phases of the moon. Or sleep with them every night without fail, and you’ll be a father as often as you like.”

  Wondering if this pint-sized asp knew things he didn’t, if possibly his hectic life with its constant interruptions that prevented his taking a regular mistress might possibly be the reason he’d never sired a child, Drogo struggled between her warped logic and his own determination. Determination won.

  “I crave neither wife nor child,” he assured her, although he lied about the child. He wanted this one desperately, or he’d never have broken his neck to get here. The wife part bloody well worried him, but he would do whatever it took to make it work. He’d build her a conservatory in London. “I would give the child my support. Come with me to London, and let the physicians verify your assumption, for the child’s sake.”

  Those seemed to be the words she wanted to hear. She searched his face.

  “I would like to see London again, but I cannot stay, and I will not marry you,” she warned, apparently satisfied with what she found. “If you want what is best for this child, you will return me here within a month’s time.”

  It was already August. A month’s time would be September, before the first snow blew. Much later than that, and she risked herself and the child with the exigencies of travel.

  It didn’t matter. If she carried his child, he had no intention of returning her here unless he could come with her, which wouldn’t happen until he could spare the time from his duties. That happened seldom, if at all.

  But he’d won this round. He offered a little flattery in return. “That’s time enough to become better acquainted with all your moods. I think I like the seductress best.” Drogo brushed her fair cheek, loving the feel of her peach-warm skin. He could have her back in his bed again.

  At his impudence, Ninian slapped his hand. “Then marry an actress, my lord,” she said sweetly, “not a witch.”

  Her logic definitely escaped him.

  Fourteen

  “You are certain mother will let me have the children?” Sarah asked anxiously as the coach swayed through another rut.

  “They’re in my nursery as we speak.”

  Fighting the churning in her stomach, Ninian glanced at the man who had fathered the child within her. Lord Ives sprawled with apparent unconcern on the leather seat across from her, his arm behind his head as he leaned against the window, one booted foot on the spare cushion beside him. Lydie and Claudia had opted to stay in the safety of Wystan.

  The earl didn’t appear a man worried about his virility or considering marriage to a witch. He didn’t even seem much concerned by his stepsister’s children. But Ninian sensed Sarah’s tension and her surprise at the word “nursery,” and she thought possibly she was missing an undercurrent. Lord Ives’s ability to conceal his emotions from her was a severe impediment to their ever understanding one another. Absently, she stroked the gray kitten that had hidden in their food basket and considered the problem.

  If he had no children, why would he have a nursery? Without the perception of her gifts, she had to reason out the undercurrents. Had he furnished a nursery in expectation and been disappointed?

  From their conversation earlier, she would assume so. A man did not set up a nursery for no reason. She would feel sympathy for him, if she could. Right now, all she could summon was stomach-churning terror.

  The earl knew every road, village, and inn on this journey and could control precisely when and where they would arrive, barring any accident. With solicitude, he had told the coachman to halt whenever Ninian felt queasy, stopped early at the best inns so she could rest, placed no demands on her at all—not even that she share his bed. He’d scarcely looked at her in that way, although more than once she’d caught him watching her. She didn’t think her condition showed yet, but he seemed determined to detect the signs—or lack thereof. His interest stirred wistful yearnings best left buried.

  “Are we almost there?” Ninian murmured into a gap in the conversation. The sun had lowered in the western sky, casting long shadows over the road.

  With indolent grace, Ives sat up and peered through the curtains. “It will be dark before we reach the house, but I think we’re safe enough at this hour. Or are you growing weary? I know an inn…”

  She shook her head. “I would be there, if you don’t mind. The sooner we arrive, the sooner I can leave.”

  Sarah’s sharp intake of breath warned she hadn’t been informed of this part of their agreement, and Ninian lifted a quizzical eyebrow.

  He shook his head slightly at her in warning. “London is not so bad as that,” he answered blithely. “Society will be returning from their country houses. The Lords will be in session, and there will be a round of balls. Don’t rush us until you’ve seen what we have to offer.”

  The conspiratorial intimacy of his look quaked her insides, but she bestowed a dark look on him and returned to watching the window. She didn’t know why he protected Sarah from their arrangement, but surely it would be safe enough to visit London for a few weeks. She supposed she really ought to see her family—and her father.

  Wrinkling her nose at the vision of that confrontation, she subsided into silence.

  ***

  Drogo paced up and down the hallway outside the bedchamber he’d assigned to Ninian—the one adjacent to his own. With Sarah to gabble, he didn’t have any secrets. He’d been chided and glared at and
been the recipient of more jests than he’d care to acknowledge from the array of brothers straggling through the house already this morning. The younger ones had been at school through his earlier fiascoes. They’d never let Drogo live this one down.

  He could hear the physician’s low murmur through the door if he tried, but he was too nervous to try. Ninian had turned stony with rage at being told she would have to submit to the indignity of a man examining her. He’d thought he would have to hold her to the bed, but he’d promised her a tour of the pleasure gardens and a visit to the seamstress to order baby linens, and Sarah had whispered assurances until she’d finally capitulated. It was a damned good thing she didn’t prefer gold and jewels, or he’d be bankrupt within weeks. He hated being at the mercy of this or any other unpredictable female.

  He detected what was almost certainly Ninian’s giggle from behind the door. He’d never heard her giggle. Hell, he’d never heard her laugh at all, but he already knew she had more moods than all his brothers combined. Just what he didn’t need for a wife—an emotional arsenal.

  For a wife. If all went well. Not wanting to face that hurdle yet, he returned to wearing out the carpet. Was it a good sign that she was giggling and not heaving things at the physician’s head? He supposed it didn’t really matter. He could handle any female idiosyncrasy, much as he controlled his brothers’ machinations. People were people, he reassured himself. He’d find what made her happy, and she’d settle down to her own pursuits, and he could return to his. It would just be a minor upheaval considering others he’d endured in his lifetime.

  If she was breeding.

  Damning himself for hoping, not understanding why he hoped, Drogo stationed himself across from the door as he heard the sounds of impending departure. Leaning with one shoulder against the wall, his arms crossed, he sought an insouciant pose as the doctor stepped out, pulling the door closed after him.

  The physician beamed. “Congratulations, my lord, you’re about to become a father.”