Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  She feared he struggled against bellowing at her in his riot-inducing voice. But this was the only way. Mrs. Lorna might fret later, when not under the influence of Celeste’s appeal, but for now, her companion was quite happy to be charmed into doing what she wanted to do anyway.

  “I will make the arrangements,” Lord Erran all but growled, glaring as if he’d have a word to say to her later.

  It was quite freeing not to have to please him, Celeste decided, sipping the inn’s horrible coffee. She could learn to enjoy her independence, if she could just overcome her terror.

  Nineteen

  “You charmed your companion into staying behind without any consideration to what will happen to your reputation if it becomes known you’re traveling with me,” Erran said, barely able to contain his fury—and amazement—at the woman beside him in the small post chaise.

  “It was necessary,” his Spanish princess declared with a regal shrug of her slim shoulders.

  Draped in a fur-lined, hooded cloak from Lady Aster, Miss Rochester looked so damned demure, she could be royalty in her chariot, above all common expectations. And apparently, she spoke like royalty, too, to convince the very respectable Mrs. Lorna that a lady could just disappear for a week without anyone noticing.

  And worst of all, she was right, he acknowledged grudgingly. The trip needed to be made. No one but themselves would know that they did it without chaperonage.

  Miss Rochester, obviously, had no problem being alone with him. He, on the other hand, was crippled by lust. At this angle, he could see nothing of her except the loose cloak and bonnet, but her scent filled his senses, and he was all too aware of her mysterious magnetism. Perhaps he had gone too long without a woman.

  He fought against imagining the night to come at a roadside inn.

  The horses flung filth as they trotted the muddy road. Once the late September sun emerged, Miss Rochester doffed her heavy wrap. Unaccustomed to England’s chilly weather, she kept the cloak nearby, but Erran had the pleasure—and discomfort—of admiring the glory of her supple figure as the team pulled them north at a good pace.

  The jarring ruts made it impossible for him to read a book, or for her to sew, but she was a pleasant conversationalist. She asked questions about the surrounding countryside that Erran did his best to answer. She happily chatted about Jamaica, when he inquired.

  They were laughing over the dreadful names of foods: toad-in-the-hole in England, jerk chicken, and cowfoot on the island—when the horses clattered into the yard of the designated inn for the evening. Erran hadn’t wanted to risk being on the road too close to dark, so he’d ordered a shorter journey than he would have made on his own. It was still daylight, and the inn wasn’t overcrowded.

  “Keep your hood pulled around you,” Erran suggested as they rolled to a stop. “I will try to pass you off as my sister so the innkeeper doesn’t think we’re running off to Gretna or something disreputable.”

  She turned a blinding smile to him. “Or I can go in without the oh-so-lovely cloak, looking like myself, and say I’m her ladyship’s maid and ask to inspect the room. Later, I will appear wrapped in furs and pretend to be me.”

  “No one but a sapskull will believe you’re a maid, no matter how dull your gown,” he said in irritation, climbing down.

  “That’s exactly what everyone thought for all those months before you arrived. That is what people will always think when they see me. It is why I’ll never take in London society. I do not look English or aristocratic.” Without waiting for him to extend a hand, she climbed out the wrong side, leaving the cloak behind.

  She lifted out her sewing bag and came around the carriage as if she’d been on the postilion seat. Annoyed, Erran stalked inside where the innkeeper was waiting.

  “How may I help his lordship?” he asked, gauging Erran’s coat and casting Celeste a suspicious glance.

  Erran grumpily realized he wore expensive tailoring not simply because he enjoyed it, but because of just this reaction—clothes forced people to recognize his place in society. He had never considered how it felt to be on the other end of the spectrum—being judged as a servant. He wanted to slug the proprietor for doing exactly as expected—judge his clientele by their clothing.

  “My sister and I would like two rooms for the evening, if my sister’s maid approves of the accommodations.” Calculating the distance to the next inn, Erran waited stoically to be flung out on his ear for corrupting a young lady. A man perceptive enough to judge Erran’s coat surely must see through this foolish charade and know that Celeste carried herself as a lady, despite her grim attire.

  “It must face east, sir,” Celeste said meekly. “The lady is very particular. I can replace the linens and scrub the china, but I cannot move windows.” Her Jamaican accent sounded foreign enough to fool the uneducated into believing she was Continental.

  Apparently that was all that was needed, Erran noted with exasperation. She hadn’t even used her persuasive voice. The old fool bowed, wrapped his hands in his apron, and led them upstairs to examine his best chambers.

  “ Oui, that is much perfect,” Celeste said in a sweet voice that made Erran want to strangle her. He heard her laughter and triumph. The innkeeper heard only meekness.

  She accepted this insult with laughter instead of fury? Erran wanted to howl at the idiocy, but he bit his tongue. They had the rooms they needed, and that was what mattered.

  They returned to the carriage, where Erran ordered the grooms to carry the baggage after the hotelier. Once the innkeeper’s back was turned, Celeste donned her cloak. When she re-entered the inn, she swept the velvet and fur around her—in full regal princess mode—even though the cloak was too short and stopped before the hem of her gown.

  With her hood concealing her face, she inspected her chamber under their host’s anxious gaze, nodded curtly, said a frosty “thank you,” and gestured imperiously for everyone to leave.

  Outside her closed door, the proprietor nearly fell over himself in his desire to please. “Your sister is all that is gracious, my lord. It is a pleasure to serve you. I will have hot water sent up at once, and more coals for the fire so she need not suffer a chill.”

  “Most kind, I’m sure,” Erran said absently, thinking that if it had been left to him, he’d send the devious lady ashes, bread, and water for that performance.

  But again, she had accomplished exactly as she had said she would. He was gaining some insight into how Miss Rochester had lived all these years—not being herself but only what people imagined her to be.

  Surely that had affected how she saw herself.

  He shouldn’t care. He ordered himself not to care. He wondered if he could shout himself into not caring. He had an assignment to accomplish. Her presence might speed the task along. He needed to protect her as part of his duty—no more.

  Which was why he dined in her company that evening instead of repairing to the tavern. And why he slept with his door open so he could hear anyone who might approach her chamber.

  And of course, it was only polite to keep her entertained as they drove northward the next day. He showed her sketches of the improvements he would like to make to her father’s sewing mechanism. Since it might be used by women, it only made sense for a woman to approve the design.

  “If you don’t mind,” he suggested at one point, “I might see if any of my family can produce a machine like this in quantity. Once we have a prototype, I can patent your father’s invention. The profit from sales may be negligible for all I know, but I can take a small commission for the improvements and filing the patent and the rest will go into his estate.”

  “We could make money from selling a machine?” she asked in wonder. “How very amazing. I had hoped we might have one or two more built so I could set up a dress shop on the island.”

  “Imagine that multiplied by hundreds,” he said. “A large factory could produce basic shirts and undergarments for everyone in England and maybe the Continent! Machines a
re our future.”

  “It will be a sad future if they are all run by men like Lansdowne,” she said curtly. “Children will be ruined by the hundreds. I do not think I like the idea of this machine used in such a way.”

  “Progress has its pitfalls,” he admitted.

  A point they argued until they reached the last posting inn before Wystan.

  ***

  Exhausted by travel but exhilarated by lively discussion, Celeste gazed in dismay at the derelict tavern sign and muddy carriage yard of the next night’s inn. She had enjoyed the company of Lord Erran this past day. But this inn . . .

  “How much farther is it to Wystan?” she whispered as Lord Erran assisted her from the post chaise.

  “Too far to reach before dark,” he said apologetically. “We will have to ride the last miles on horseback unless there’s an oxen cart available.”

  The inn was not a prosperous one. The men lounging outside did not appear to be of the reputable sort. She clasped Lord Erran’s arm and murmured, “Perhaps you ought to call me your wife. I think we had best leave the rich cloak bundled up.”

  She had left it off in order to play the part of maid, and she was shivering already in the cool dusk. Even Lord Erran’s look of concern could not warm her. That he listened to her was a miracle and eased her fear somewhat as he negotiated with the innkeeper over the inn’s one available chamber.

  Instead of abandoning her in the room while he oversaw the baggage unloading, Lord Erran gave coins to the post boy to make certain all the bags were carried up.

  Celeste grimly studied the small chamber, then set to work. She unpacked the clean linen, ordered a maid to bring fresh blankets, and stripped the bed.

  Taking the stack of old woolen blankets reluctantly provided by their landlord, Lord Erran shut the door and leaned against it. “There are bugs?” he asked warily.

  “I will take no chances with slovenly housekeeping. Help me turn this mattress.”

  He flipped it easily. She covered the fresh side with a layer of blankets and her own clean linens. She threw the graying flowered coverlet on a laundry heap with the old sheets and replaced it with the clean blankets. She wrinkled her nose over the flat pillows. “I suppose we shall have to use my petticoats again.”

  “I apologize for the accommodations,” he said, still watching her with caution. “The place has apparently deteriorated since any of us have been up here.”

  “Is this part of your brother’s estate?” Knowing they would have to share that bed, Celeste couldn’t quite meet his eye but busied herself with examining the threadbare drapery for spiders.

  “On the outskirts, I believe. Until Duncan’s accident a few months ago, none of us but him has had reason to visit. We’re still learning the extent of his holdings and attempting to deal with them. I’m to be his eyes and ears while we’re here.”

  “Well, it’s not to be expected that an outpost as rural as this would be profitable. But if Ashford entertains guests with any frequency, this doesn’t appear to be a hospitable introduction, especially if your guests are expectant mothers.”

  “I’ll make note of that and see what Dunc suggests. It’s quite likely Lady Aster will ask to come to Wystan someday, and she’s not one to remain silent,” he said with a hint of humor.

  Unable to think of any further excuse to study a window, Celeste steadied her pulse and turned around. Lord Erran was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking windblown and elegant. “It is good to know that some English ladies are willing to speak out. We do not have that so much on the island. We are too isolated, I believe.”

  “Do not think that English women are much different. I sometimes think it’s only Malcolm women who operate independently of men and believe they have an equal right to be heard. I disagree on many levels, but my thoughts on the matter don’t count.”

  She dared cast His Arrogance a scowl. “Because your thoughts on the matter are worthless. Perhaps women are more than equal, and men are the boors who don’t realize it.”

  “Apparently, anything is possible,” he said with a verbal shrug, continuing to lean his wide shoulders against the frame. “I don’t wish to leave you alone in here. I’ve ordered supper and warm water and more coals. What can I do to make you comfortable with the situation?”

  “I brought it on myself, so I cannot complain.” In fact, she was so amazed that he asked, that she almost suggested she be the one to sleep elsewhere. Except she really didn’t want to be parted from the annoying gentleman. That was weak of her, she knew, but she had limits. “I’ll be fine. Perhaps you could teach me one of your English card games?”

  ***

  Having watched the lady defrost and relax over a reasonably edible supper and a watered jug of ale, Erran played his last card, literally.

  Celeste studied her hand, looked at his, and laughed in a manner that would have stirred his lust even if he couldn’t see her. But after these days in close proximity, Erran could see her with his eyes closed—and he wanted her more than anything else in his life, no matter how hard he tried to push her and her nonsense out of his mind.

  He was a doomed man.

  She moved her last button toward the center of the small table holding the cards. “I lose. What is my forfeit?”

  “Forfeit?” As if he could think clearly when a mahogany strand of hair brushed her rosy cheek, white teeth flashed behind ruby lips—and a clean bed waited three feet away.

  “You do not do forfeits if you lose a game?” she asked, tilting her head with a curiosity that appealed to him too much.

  With any other woman, he would have considered the question flirtatious, and he would have responded outrageously. But this one—while looking like all the temptations of Eve—was wearing governess gray and buried in three layers of shawls with a heavy cloak over her knees. Besides, she was an innocent and had no idea how seductive her velvet-lashed, blue eyes could be.

  “I cannot take money from a lady who has just learned the game,” he protested. “That would be the same as cheating.”

  He didn’t think he’d influenced her with his voice when he’d taught her the rules, but he wouldn’t be comfortable taking her few coins even if he knew for certain that he hadn’t. He said the first thing that came to his overworked brain. “How about a kiss as forfeit?”

  He regretted that insane response the moment he said it. He would start believing in the devil shortly and swear Old Nick had made him do it.

  To his shock, she shrugged and leaned over the table. “One kiss for five buttons seems fair,” she said.

  Not waiting for a second offer, Erran leaned over and pressed his mouth to her primly pursed one.

  The explosion was as powerful as he’d feared—and hoped. She gasped. He touched a hand to her jaw and guided her closer to sip from ruby lips and tease them into parting.

  The table between them kept anything but their mouths and hands from touching. Erran kissed her tenderly, stroking the beautiful cheek he’d longed to touch from the moment he’d seen her. Unsteadily, she caressed his sideburns and whiskered jaw—and pressed her mouth closer.

  He inhaled her unusual floral scent, tested the silken texture of her skin, and nearly knocked the table over to get at her. He touched his tongue to hers, and she moaned, then grabbed his shoulder for support.

  He did knock the table over then. It tumbled to one side, and he circled his arms around a waist so slender he feared she’d break if he squeezed too hard. He felt broad and blocky and no more than a crude ruffian against her willowy grace, but that didn’t stop him. Celeste was in his arms, at last, and instead of fighting him, she wrapped her fingers around his neck and tugged him down to her height.

  She was tall enough that he didn’t need to lean far. He plundered her mouth and felt her breasts rising and falling rapidly against his waistcoat. He ran a hand over the soft curve of her buttocks, crushing skirt and petticoats. She didn’t hesitate but inched closer, until his arms were full of heaven.


  He took a step toward the bed.

  A knock pounded on the door.

  Twenty

  At the rap on the door, Lord Erran hastily released her, and Celeste stepped away, horrified at what they’d just done. What she had done.

  Covering her bruised lips, still shaking with the desire he’d ignited, she hurried behind the dressing screen while his lordship answered the door. She heard the maid offer hot water and ask if there was a problem with the table. She flushed, knowing others had heard the crash. After his curt reply, the door shut again, but she hadn’t pulled herself together sufficiently to dare step out of hiding.

  “I shall go down to the tavern and give you time to wash and prepare for bed,” he said curtly from the other side of the screen.

  He behaved as if what they had done was nothing, a momentary aberration easily forgotten—a forfeit, as he’d asked. Celeste couldn’t find her tongue to reply.

  She’d always considered herself a pragmatist without a romantic bone in her body. She’d allowed boys to kiss her just to see what it was like, but mostly, it had been silly and sometimes unpleasant. Those had been boys. Lord Erran was very much a man, and she shivered with the sensuous pleasure he’d initiated.

  After she heard the door close again, she took a deep breath and stepped out to find the water pitcher while it was still warm. She had survived worse disasters. She would muddle through this night somehow, no matter how deeply she had embarrassed herself.

  Her saving grace was that she was pretty certain his noble lordship had enjoyed that kiss too.

  By the time Lord Erran returned, smelling slightly of ale, Celeste had yanked her hair into a loose braid, wrapped in her warmest nightshift and robe, and cocooned herself in linen and wool covers. She’d set aside another sheet and blanket on the other side of the narrow bed for her companion.

  She had left a lamp burning behind the screen and lay in bed with her back to the room to give him privacy. She heard him struggle out of his coat and move a chair to hang it over. He’d had his linen washed and starched at the last inn, but it had been sadly rumpled this past day. She was fairly certain they had no such services in this outpost, so he’d be draping his neckcloth over the coat, and possibly his waistcoat.