He studied Alan’s sleeping features. The babe had already found his thumb and sucked on it dreamily. Round baby cheeks gave no evidence of the square man’s jaw he would someday possess, but the pugnacious chin hinted of a strong streak of Ives temperament.
Somehow, he had to lead this child into adulthood, teach him responsibility and duty, steer him clear of life’s perils and pitfalls, as he had not his brother.
He’d not had the raising of Dunstan. He couldn’t shoulder the blame for that, as much as he would have, if he could. He should have done something…
Ninian stirred against the pillows, drawing his gaze eagerly to her and away from his morbid thoughts. Since he’d torn the draperies from the window, moonlight streamed across the bed, catching in golden curls and illuminating translucent features. He no longer knew what to make of her—not that he ever really had.
He’d tried to analyze her as he’d tried to analyze the problem with the burn, with equally dismal results. He’d tried to think of her as a mathematical calculation where two plus two gave him four every time, but that hadn’t worked either. Ninian’s moods guided her behavior as erratically as the winds blew.
How could he remain distant from a son who needed his constant guidance and a wife who demanded attention with just her presence?
He couldn’t, not and keep them by his side, leastways.
And he didn’t want them out of his sight.
At least he recognized the impossibility of tying them to him. Ninian had accused him of controlling his family, and she was right. He felt much less helpless when he could control their behavior with the scratch of a pen quill on a banknote.
He couldn’t control Ninian that way, or his son. They would do as they willed, with no thought to him.
Helplessness ate at his soul. He couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want to leave Ninian here, but he couldn’t carry out his responsibilities unless he was in London. How could he tie her to him so she would follow?
As if she heard the panic of his thoughts, Ninian opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at him, striking a blow to his heart from which he would never recover.
He couldn’t leave her. He was doomed.
***
“You look as if you’ve swallowed a lemon, my lord,” Ninian teased as Drogo appeared beside the bed, carrying their whimpering son.
“The brat has loaded his napkin and none of your nursemaids have appeared to take care of it,” he grumbled, handing her the soggy bundle.
“I could teach you,” she offered. He’d been the kindest, most considerate man in the world this past month, but he’d categorically refused to change dirty nappies.
He handed her a dry cloth and poured warm water into a bowl but stepped back in disgust at her offer. “Not a chance, madam. I’ll drag someone up here by the hair of their head first.”
She’d forgive him this one weakness. Alan kicked and squalled and doused everyone in sight when displeased, and hunger and dirty nappies displeased him. Skillfully, she caught flailing legs and rearranged his clothing to her satisfaction.
“Master Alan needs to learn patience,” she observed once the infant was clean and dry and sucking greedily at her breast.
“Lord Alan,” Drogo corrected. At her questioning look, he explained. “The eldest son of an earl bears the courtesy title of ‘lord.’ If my title included a viscountcy, then he would be Lord Wystan, but I have two earldoms instead.”
Ninian sniffed. “He has as much chance of lordliness as your brothers. Crackbrained rogues, the lot of you.” She glanced anxiously at the window. “Is it still snowing?”
Tearing his gaze from the sight of her bared breast, Drogo walked restlessly to the window. “No, it’s stopped, but none will come in or out for a while, I wager.”
She recognized his male restlessness. He’d managed to submerge it in his work, but she’d caught him looking at her with hunger more than once these past weeks. She was grateful he had not taken another woman to his bed as many men did, but they still had more than a few problems to sort out. She would have to be a little more cautious before surrendering herself this time, or she would end up like Drogo’s mother—perpetually burdened with children and no husband to show for it.
“Dunstan?” she inquired softly.
“He can’t leave any more than your family can arrive. He’s sleeping it off with the horses right now. It seems he’s found a drinking partner somewhere.” He shrugged and returned to the bed.
Drogo’s unabashed stare heated her flesh, and Ninian suspected he knew it. The makings of a smile curled his mouth as she tried to adjust her bodice more modestly.
“You cannot hide what nature gave you,” he noted with satisfaction as he sprawled in the chair beside the bed.
“It did not need to give me quite so much,” Ninian muttered.
He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, with his shirt unfastened to reveal the strong column of his throat. Ninian let her gaze drift to the flap of his breeches and swallowed at the sight of the bulge there. His gaze mocked hers as she hastily returned it to his face.
“Should I say the same?” he asked with a straight face. “I can scarce hide that I miss sharing your bed.”
“You are the one who moved out of it,” she said tartly, switching Alan to her other breast despite his sleepy protest. “Perhaps it’s best left that way. I would not burden you with any further responsibility.”
The mocking light left his eyes. “And I would not use you for my convenience and kill you with the agonies of childbirth. I can keep my breeches fastened.”
Oh dear. When he said things like that, it reminded her of how much she loved him, no matter how exasperating, calculating, or plain old muleheaded he could be. She loved the man behind the cold demeanor, the vulnerable man who must be taught to hold the child he adored.
“Fastened for another month, at least,” she agreed with a smile intended to hold him captive. She couldn’t deny him. Perhaps he couldn’t love her in the same body-and-soul manner she loved him, but in his own way, he cared for her. Perhaps it was a Malcolm gift to love this deeply and thoroughly, and she shouldn’t expect others to return it. She just didn’t think he would ever—all evidence to the contrary—believe she had abilities beyond the natural. It simply wasn’t within the limits of his scientific mind, and he hadn’t love enough to believe what he couldn’t see.
He took a deep breath and tore his gaze away from her to studiously watch the fire. “A month. By then, you’ll be well enough to travel?”
She should have seen that coming. “It will be March. The roads will be swamps.”
He lifted one curled eyebrow in her direction. “If you can clear the weather to travel to Wystan, you can clear it to go the other way.”
He had her there, even though he mocked her. Had the earlier fair weather been coincidence, or had she really caused it? And could she do it again, for his sake and not her own? How could she expect him to believe in her if she continued doubting herself?
Grandmother had said she belonged in Wystan, that the people needed her here. She needed to be needed. The lonely child within her still craved acceptance.
Of course, if Drogo needed her…
His tears at Alan’s birth had given her hope, opened her heart in eagerness—although what she hoped of an Ives, she didn’t know. They were immensely self-sufficient men who prided themselves more on conquest and accomplishment than anything so ephemeral as love. She only had love to offer. Could he accept that?
As she eased Alan from her breast and buttoned her bodice, she eyed her husband’s broad shoulders casually slouched against the chair back, the long, muscled limbs sprawled across the carpet, and doubted the likelihood of Drogo ever needing anything. His noble lordship already had it all—including her.
Thirty-six
“Something’s not right.” Ninian sat up in b
ed and stared worriedly at the fire crackling in the grate.
“Dunstan is drunk in his room,” Drogo replied calmly, trying to focus his telescope in the direction of his planet from the window of the master suite. He didn’t like leaving Ninian and his son alone long enough to go to his tower.
“Not Dunstan. It’s the ghost; I’m sure of it. She can no longer speak to me, but I hear her.”
He’d heard her once, too. Uncomfortable with that thought, Drogo relinquished his telescope to turn his attention to his easily excitable wife. “When did she stop speaking?” he asked, humoring her.
She looked embarrassed. “The only time she spoke was before we…” She gestured helplessly. “Before we made love the first time.”
He grinned at her embarrassment and rose to check on their sleeping son in his cradle. “You mean, before we threw ourselves at each other in an excess of lust?”
“That, too,” she answered huffily, tilting her head to listen to the wind. “Is it still raining?”
He used to look at her in profound befuddlement when she disappeared into that strange world inside her head, but now it was with as much amusement as confusion when he recognized the signs. “It is. The snow is almost melted. We are sitting on a great bog.”
Ewen had rode in from the mine with the snow melt, before the rains began. He was in the library, busy drawing grand plans for improvements in the mine, while Dunstan continued to drink himself into a stupor every night. Drogo needed to set changes in motion, then return for the opening of Parliament.
And all he could think was… It was late March. How much longer before he could share his wife’s bed? He admired the glint of firelight on Ninian’s fair skin. Alan slept through the night now, abandoning those lovely breasts for a purpose, Drogo was certain. Surely, it was his turn.
She didn’t seem ready to fall on him in a fit of lust but continued listening to the wind. “The rains don’t usually come this early. I know the legends said we’d cause a flood, but I’ve been very careful. I know I haven’t done this.”
Drogo smiled at this foolishness. “Of course you haven’t. You may have a few instincts stronger than normal, but the wind and the clouds cause the rain.”
“Actually, I think I can.” She sat demurely with hands in her blanket-covered lap as she listened to the wail of the chimney.
Prepared to be patient with his wife’s idiosyncrasies, Drogo smiled and started to say something witty, but even as he lifted his hand to stroke her hair, he realized she wasn’t with him.
Damn! He glanced down at her unfocused gaze, waved a hand in front of her face, and shook his head when she didn’t respond. He knew she wasn’t insane. Slightly addled, maybe, but a powerful brain churned behind that innocent-miss expression of hers.
“Ninian, stop that this instant!” he ordered. He wouldn’t let the little twit frighten him. He’d damned well stand between her and the rest of the world, if necessary, but he sure as hell wouldn’t let her terrorize him in return. Someone around here had to have a little sense.
The chimney stopped whistling, and the fire crackled more warmly. The room actually heated to a comfortable temperature as the drafts died.
In a blink of an eye, she was back with him, smiling. “That’s better.”
“I thought you said something was wrong,” he said with suspicion. He certainly wouldn’t forget anytime soon the last time she’d told him that. The last he’d heard, the authorities had no evidence with which to charge Dunstan with his wife’s death.
She turned solemn. “Something is wrong. The burn is rising from the melting snow, and we’ll have a flood if the rain doesn’t stop. I can talk to the wind, but the rain doesn’t hear me. If only my aunts would arrive…”
He sighed in exasperation and leaned over to kiss her mouth closed. He’d do anything for her, except become as crazy as she was.
Her mouth warmed hungrily beneath his, but she still didn’t invite him into her bed.
***
“Water’s out of its banks,” Dunstan declared blearily, staggering into the breakfast room where Drogo and Ninian dined.
“Oh, dear.” Ninian dropped her spoon and hastened to stand up. “And it’s still raining. We’ll have to hurry. Dunstan, do you think you can hitch up the wagon? We need to carry out the elders first.”
Drogo jumped up when she did. “Wait a minute…”
Dunstan shook his head. “Can’t. There’s sickness. The babe will catch it.”
“Why didn’t someone tell me?” Frantic, Ninian ran for the door.
Drogo caught her by the waist and hauled her back. “Because we didn’t want the contagion to spread to you. You are Alan’s only source of nourishment.”
She hesitated, looking from one towering man to the other. She couldn’t lose Alan or this fascinating male family who accepted her and needed her more than they knew. But the village… It was her job to protect it. Grandmother had said so.
“If I cannot go, you must,” she whispered. What if they wouldn’t? What if these Ives men laughed her off as most people would? She couldn’t desert the village. She couldn’t harm Alan. Torn, she watched them with a prayer in her heart.
Dunstan scowled. “What the hell can I do?”
That was a start. “Carry the sick ones to my grandmother’s house. It’s on high ground.”
Drogo’s arm tensed around her waist. “I won’t let you go. I can’t risk it.”
She turned and looked into his stern-jawed face. She thought she saw fear flicker behind his eyes. “You must tell me their symptoms, observe them closely, listen.”
She was asking the impossible of him. Whether he realized it or not, Drogo commanded from an ivory tower while she was the one who walked among his family and tenants, listening. He didn’t know how to hear the pain and sorrow behind brave words. He merely saw problems and looked for solutions.
“You are to stay here,” he half-ordered, half-questioned, watching her warily.
“If you will be my eyes and ears,” she agreed.
“If there’s contagion, no one else must leave the castle, or they cannot come back.”
She nodded, biting her lip. “Someone must tell me what you’ve found so I know what cures to use.”
“I will write down all that I find and pass it to you through a window.”
This was insane. She knew it was. She needed to be with her people.
And she needed to be with Drogo’s son. No wonder the ghost quit speaking to her.
Nodding at the inevitability, she agreed. “But if the water continues rising, the village will not be safe,” she reminded them.
“One thing at a time, moonchild. Gather up your linens and bedding and whichever of the servants you trust to follow orders. We will do what we can.”
***
What they could do wasn’t enough. The burn spilled over its banks under a steady fall of rain. Drogo reported her grandmother’s house filled to overflowing with the sick. Ninian’s potions, plasters, and prayers weren’t enough.
When Drogo appeared to tell her all of Mary’s children were sick, Ninian resolutely reached for her herb pouch and began choosing the contents.
Outside the conservatory windows, Drogo narrowed his eyes. “What do you think you are doing?”
“I thought the herbs healed,” she yelled back. She didn’t have time for the nicety of pen and paper. “But maybe it’s not the herbs. Maybe they really need me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He flung open the door and barred the way. “All of London’s physicians could not cure this.”
“All of London’s physicians are quacks.” She reached for a pot on a high shelf. She wished she had the agrimony from the burn. It was so much better for fever.
“I’ve ordered up the carriage to take you and Alan back to London. You’ll be safe there.” Like a mountain,
he would not be moved.
“Lydie is still nursing her daughter. She can nurse Alan too. We can wean him to cow’s milk.” She swung and glared at him. “Would you leave your brothers if they were ill?”
“They’re not your brothers, dammit!” Drogo roared. “You’re my wife, mother of my son, and I will not let you risk your life for people who turned their backs on you!”
They had at that. They’d pushed her to the outside, never accepted her, and turned their backs when she needed them. She hadn’t accepted herself either. She certainly couldn’t expect those less knowledgeable in Malcolm ways to understand what she hadn’t. It no longer mattered if they accepted her. All she really needed was to accept herself.
Smiling, she stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to her husband’s stubbly cheek. He was such a handsome man, even when he was scowling ferociously at her. She wanted back in his bed. It was time. She didn’t dare tell him that now, though. “They did not have the power to help me as I have the power to help them. You cannot stop me, Drogo. This is who I am. If you cannot accept that, you are no better than they are.”
Panic bubbled through Drogo’s blood as he watched Ninian calmly packing her bags and pouches, sorting through bits of dead leaves and grass as if they were of as vast importance as the infant sleeping in his cradle.
She couldn’t turn her back on family. She couldn’t just walk away and leave him.
“What of Dunstan?” he demanded as the panic bubbled wilder. He hadn’t realized until then that he’d relied on her wisdom to keep his brother alive.
“He’s a grown man,” she said unsympathetically, reaching for her cloak. “I cannot stop him any more than you can if he chooses to waste his life. Only he can make that decision. But if you would make him feel useful, have him find Adonis. I’m convinced the water in the burn is responsible for this illness.”
She wrapped the cloak around her and waited for him to move from the door.
She was small and helpless, and he couldn’t let her out in the mud and rain and subject her to the depredations of the fever terrorizing the town. He must protect her, as he protected all that was his.
Merely Magic Page 32
