Uncertain Magic

by Laura Kinsale

  She met him alone in the small parlor the next morning. A smile was more than she could manage, but she held out her gloved hand politely. He did not take it. He stood in the doorway and looked at her, with a far steadier gaze than she herself could command.

  “Good morning,” she said, trying very hard not to look down before those frost-blue eyes. She forced her lips into an awkward curve. “I’m…glad to see you.”

  He raised his dark brows, and faint humor touched the firm line of his mouth. “Brave girl.” He stepped forward and took her gloved hand, bowing over it with smooth grace. “Would you be so courageous as to drive out with me?”

  She looked up into his face and realized with surprise that she really was glad to see him. She felt like a spooky colt let out for the first time alone—fascinated by new sights and sounds and liable to bolt at the merest shadow.

  “I should like that,” she said. “I’ll go speak to Papa.”

  He let go of her hand. “Ah, yes. Papa.”

  She left him standing in the parlor. The interview with her father was brief, for Roddy was determined to block her parents’ fears from her mind. She wasted no time in the hopeless task of convincing her father that Iveragh was not going to attack her the moment they were out of sight of the house, but simply stated firmly that she was going for a drive, and might not be back for luncheon. Her father took one look at the stubborn set of her chin and agreed. As Roddy exited he was making hasty plans to stay out of his wife’s sight for the remainder of the day.

  Lord Iveragh handed Roddy into the phaeton and took up the lines. The crisp morning air and the fresh eagerness of the horses raised her unsteady spirits to the point of inebriation. A bubble of giddy laughter escaped her as the whip tapped the back of the nearside gray and the carriage rolled into motion with a gentle jolt. Appalled, she popped her hand over her mouth and tried to make the giggle sound like a cough. The earl slanted a look toward her at the sound, but said only, “Which direction?”

  She raised her parasol against the sun with a nervous snap. “Have you visited the East Riding before, my lord?”

  “Never,” he said. “My name is Faelan.”

  “Faelan.” She tested the exotic sound of it on her tongue, the way he said it with an Irish lilt—Feylin. It called up thoughts of mist and mountains and wild places. “Faelan Savigar.” She hesitated, and then said diffidently, “It’s certainly fierce-sounding.”

  “Faelan is Gaelic for ‘wolf.’”

  “Oh.”

  He gazed solemnly out over the backs of the trotting horses. “Fortunately, my second name is Vachel.”

  “Oh?”

  “That means ’little cow’ in Old French.”

  “Oh.”

  “They balance each other out, you see.”

  Roddy looked down at her gloves. “Not exactly.”

  He turned his disturbing blue eyes upon her. “Some young ladies are afraid of wolves.”

  She fiddled with the cloudy-glass handle of her sunshade.

  “Are you?” he asked gently.

  Roddy stole a glance and found him watching her. “A little,” she said, in a burst of honesty.

  The phaeton drifted to a stop at the end of the driveway. He smiled. “Then I suggest you pick a direction in which we won’t meet up with any. East or west?”

  Roddy swallowed her confusion. It seemed that they were carrying on two conversations at once, and she was not at all sure if one was not entirely in her imagination. “East,” she said, trying to sound brisk and unconcerned. “I’ll show you a surprise.”

  The horses arched their fine necks and leaned against their traces, and the carriage wheeled out of the drive.

  Chapter 4

  Roddy spent the first quarter hour of the drive watching the wind flutter the silk of her parasol and trying desperately to think of topics of conversation. It was a new and imposing problem. With her gift and her small circle of family and close friends, subjects of mutual interest had always been easy to find. Several came to mind now on which she might have spoken quite knowledgeably, such as the weather and the horses and the price of wool, but none seemed to hold out much hope of amusing the Devil Earl.

  When at length she hit upon a topic, she was so relieved to break the silence that her question came out with an excess of enthusiasm. “Will you tell me about Iveragh, my lord?” She caught her breath, furious with the way her voice quavered upward. “What it’s like, I mean,” she added, which only made her sound worse, as if she’d thought he was too stupid to understand the first time.

  He glanced at her. “Iveragh.” His mouth twisted into something like a smile. “Not yet, I think. I wouldn’t want you to break our engagement before we put the contract in writing.”

  Roddy peeked at him, looking hopefully for a sign that he was joking.

  He tilted his head and raised one eyebrow. “Tell me about yourself instead.”

  “There’s little to tell about me,” she said apologetically. “I’ve never been to London.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, gravely enough, but she suspected humor in the odd set of his jaw. “We shall remedy that, if you like. But it’s you and not London that interests me. What do you do with yourself, when you aren’t dressed up in breeches and battling grooms?”

  Roddy bit her lip. “I suppose I shall never live that down.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you ever shall.” He grinned at her, an expression so unexpected that it seemed to go straight to her heart and make it thump madly. “You’ve a damned graceful way of unmanning an opponent. You can rest assured I’ll remember it to my grave.”

  She shrugged, to cover her agitation. “One is obliged to learn self-defense, with four older brothers.”

  His rich laughter wound around her thudding heart and seemed to squeeze it even harder. “Good God, I hope you never tried that trick on them.” He rolled his eyes heavenward in mock terror. “I’ll take care around you, my dear. I hope you haven’t a short temper.”

  “Not really. Only—I dislike to see animals abused.”

  “I see.” He glanced at her again, with laughter still warming his deep blue eyes. “Tell me about your father’s stable.”

  The question was as surprising as it was welcome. Under the steady encouragement of his smiling interest, she found herself launched on an enthusiastic description of her father’s training methods and breeding techniques. It must have been an hour, but it seemed only a few minutes later when she glanced up at the horizon and caught her breath.

  “There it is,” she cried, and pointed with her parasol as the phaeton bowled out of a steep chasm and onto a rise.

  The horses clattered to a stop. They had been on an indifferent road, surrounded on all sides by nothing but sky and sheep and the gray-green bleakness of the moors.

  “The sea,” Faelan said.

  It had appeared as if by sorcery. A moment before it had seemed that the moors would go on forever in their brooding beauty, but now sea gulls mewed in the cloudless sky, and a sapphire horizon stretched away beyond the sheer cliffs. On a headland in the distance, the crumbling skeleton of a medieval abbey crowned the scene. They sat in silence for a full minute, and then hbe said simply, “I like your surprises.”

  To her profound annoyance, Roddy found herself blushing again.

  “Does the road go past the ruin?” he asked, when she did not respond.

  “Yes. In another mile or so.”

  “Good. We can stop there to eat.” He urged the horses forward. “Are you hungry?”

  “Well—” Roddy hardly knew what to say. Surely he didn’t think there would be food available at the deserted abbey?

  “Well, what?” he mocked, smiling at her hesitation. “Look in the hamper, then, and see if there’s aught to be tempting you. It’s under the seat.”

  By the time they reached the abbey, she had examined and enthusiastically approved the contents. While Faelan saw to the horses she took it upon herself to spread the cloth and arrange the
cheese, smoked salmon, and crusty bread on a convenient block of stone. She was working diligently, if inexpertly, to open the wine bottle when he returned.

  He lifted the bottle out of her hands, and with one deft twist freed the cork. Roddy had seated herself on the block next to the food, facing the water. He sat down in the grass beside her, leaning against the roughly dressed stone and stretching out one boot-clad leg as he poured the wine. In exchange for the offered glass, Roddy handed him a makeshift sandwich. They ate in a comfortable silence. It was pleasant, to have someone nearby and yet not intruding on her thoughts. The horses were content with their feedbags. A light breeze from the sea fanned her cheek and the egret feathers on the bonnet she had set aside, but all else was quiet. Even the gulls had deserted them, too wild on this empty coast to accept a handout.

  She finished her sandwich and stared around her at the quiet ruins. A melody came unbidden to her lips, the kind of haunting air she loved. She hummed it softly, liking the way the wind carried her notes away as if to please some fay sea creature drowsing far out on the shimmering waves.

  She realized, with a small shock, that she was happy. Her fears and doubts had faded into pleasant attention to the numerous small sensations that interested her. In the cool autumn day, there was just a trace of heat from the man at her side, the slightest warmth where his shoulder rested half an inch from her knee. She felt it even through her light wool skirt. Against the background of cerulean, his hair seemed very black. It made her think of his eyes and their blue beneath thick charcoal. She watched his hands idly as he poured another glass of wine. The fingers were long and perfect: strong, rather than refined.

  He was, she thought smugly, a handsome man.

  The idea made her lips curve upward. She had to remind herself firmly that theirs would be a marriage of convenience. He needed her for her money, not her person. Those fine hands had undoubtedly caressed far more beautiful women than Roddy was sure she would ever become. After their wedding, he might even decide to go back to his mistresses.

  A depressing thought. Not that she’d expected eternal devotion from him, but it would have been nice to…

  But no, that was mere fantasy. She wanted children, and proper management of the money and estate that would be their future. That was enough. He could keep all the highfliers he liked. It was, she told herself, one of the specific advantages of marriage to the Devil Earl—she would know no more than he chose to tell her.

  He slanted a look at her, and held up his glass. “To my bride,” he said unexpectedly. “May you always be as happy as you were a moment ago.”

  Before Roddy could summon a reply, he finished off the wine in one swallow and stood up. “Walk with me.” He held out his hand. “We need to talk.”

  His fingers curved around hers, giving her little choice but to obey. He did not let her go as he began to walk, but tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, a move that seemed so natural to him that she thought again, gloomily, of the women he must have known.

  “What is it?” he asked suddenly.

  Roddy looked up at him in startlement. “I beg your pardon?”

  He stopped and turned, and once again she was caught by the vivid blue of his eyes. “Why do you frown? I’d hoped you were enjoying yourself.”

  “Was I frowning?” Roddy made an effort to lighten her expression. “I’m sorry. Of course I’m enjoying myself.”

  He took her arm again and moved on. “Good. I like it when you smile.”

  “My lord—”

  “Faelan.”

  Roddy took a breath. “Faelan—there’s really no need for gallantry. I realize full well that you’ve offered for me because of my portion, and I’m well satisfied. You don’t have to pretend affection when we’re alone.”

  He stared out at the water. “Don’t I? How practical you are, Miss Delamore.”

  “You may call me Roderica,” she said generously.

  “I would far rather call you Roddy, as Geoff does. May I have that honor, or is it reserved for—” He paused, and then said with an odd quirk to his mouth, “—old friends?”

  “I’ll never be properly dignified if everyone calls me Roddy,” she protested. “It sounds like a stableboy.”

  “Ah, but I have a special fondness for stableboys. I’ll call you Roderica until we’re married, if you like. After that, I shall consider it my prerogative to choose what suits you best.”

  They walked in silence for a while as he led her aimlessly among the tussocks of dried and windblown weeds. Finally she said, “You wanted to discuss something, my lord?”

  “Yes.” He reached down and pulled a late-blooming wildflower, a ragged thing with tiny, colorless petals, and gave it to her absently. “We both know the advantages to me in this match.” He lifted his head to gaze at the horizon. “I’d much like to know what advantages you see for yourself.”

  Roddy looked down at the brittle stalk in her hands. “That’s difficult to explain. Is it so important to you?”

  “It is,” he said.

  “I want a family, my lord. Children.”

  He tilted his head, probed her with a glance that was as hard and quick as blue metal. “Forgive me if I seem vulgar, but I can assure you that there are any number of men who could give you children. My…talents…in that area are hardly unique.”

  “Nevertheless,” Roddy maintained bravely, “I feel that we shall suit.”

  He gave a humorless laugh. “What illusions are you laboring under, child?” He stopped and turned to face her. As he met her eyes, his brows drew downward. He reached out and gripped her shoulders in a savage shake. “Has no one told you about me?” he demanded. “God’s mercy, will your friends let you do this blindly?”

  Roddy held his fierce gaze on the strength of willpower alone. “If there’s aught to tell, my lord, I would rather hear it from you. As a man of honor.”

  His hands fell away from her as if she had singed him. “Honor. There’s a piece of drollery. Half the world would tell you I can’t even spell it.”

  Roddy said nothing. I will not let him frighten me, she promised herself, watching gamely as he tore another autumn weed from the earth and ripped the plant into tattered shreds. There was violence there, in the restless fingers that made quick work of destroying a wildflower. He dropped the crushed pieces as if they were nothing. “Shall I tell you, then?” His voice was harsh. He looked at her and then away. “Ahh…those eyes of yours. You scare me, little girl. Old…young…” He laughed, a distorted sound. “A man might fear Athena in all her wisdom never saw as much as you.”

  Roddy pressed her hands together behind her back and swallowed. She kept her gaze resolutely from his face.

  “Where shall we start?” he said, with a lightness that was chilling. He took her arm and turned her toward the sea. “With my most recent sins, I think. I remember them more clearly. You’ll forgive me if I give you a summary rather than an accounting—thirty-five years of corruption might be too much to stomach at one sitting.”

  “My lord—”

  “Just lately,” he went on, as if she had not spoken, “I have seduced the third daughter of George Compton of Asherby—her name is Jane, I believe, but I can never keep all these Marys and Janes and Elizabeths straight in my mind. She is to bear my child—so you see, Roderica, you have indeed selected a man with fertile seed. That should put to rest any fears you might have entertained on that score. This Jane…” He paused, as if searching his memory. “Ah, yes. I’ve blackmailed her father into paying her keep for me at the remote hunting lodge where I will continue to visit her until my carnal desire for her is glutted. When thmat time comes, I plan to cast her off entirely, but of course I shall continue to insist that her father pay me well to keep the secret to myself. He holds a sensitive government post, you see, and has five more unmarried daughters, unfortunate man. I believe they have put it about that Jane has died of smallpox.”

  The painful grip of his fingers on her arm belied his co
nversational tone of voice. She could almost feel bruises forming beneath her jacket and blouse.

  “A representative example of a scheme which I’ve found to be successful over the years,” he added. “I shall not bore you with particulars. Suffice it to say that I’ve ruined no fewer than eight innocent maids and sent them all to walk the streets of London while I pocket their parents’ hush money.”

  His stranglehold on her arm had begun to cut off her circulation. She twisted one hand about the other, trying to ease the tingling. He showed no sign of noticing her discomfort, but forced her along with him on his slow and terrible stroll. “Yes,” he said casually, “I quite excel at extortion. I’m also in the habit of manufacturing false evidence concerning the many indiscreet young bucks who frequent certain houses in the City. It’s shockingly easy, I fear, to bribe servants into the wildest of tales—stories which could ruin a man’s good name for life. Occasionally the game becomes more challenging, for a few of these young men are quite courageous. Even rash. They have the effrontery to face me down in a public place and accuse me of blackmail. They challenge me to meet them, and naturally I accept—how could a man of honor do less, my love? And you have called me a man of honor, have you not?”

  She opened her mouth to put an end to the bitter words, but he quickly cut her off. “I don’t care for duels myself,” he said, in a careless way. “But I assure you I am an excellent shot. I always aim to kill on the field of honor, my dear. A clever way of discouraging the practice, don’t you think? I fancy I would have faced challenges without number had I been so foolish as to go lightly on my adversaries. I’m proud to say I’ve dispatched three young men of promise and valor and still escaped the displeasure of the law, although I believe my feats are common knowledge in the highest circles. Alas, there is no proof.” He made a sound of disgust. “Otherwise, I make no doubt, I wouldn’t be in a position to offer you my hand—as a man of honor.” His hold on her loosened, so suddenly that she took an unbalanced step away from him. He let her go, with a sardonic, sideways glance. “Frightened, little girl?”