Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  The windowless stone chamber wasn’t exactly a romantic bedroom, but the instant the door closed, Erran was painfully aware that he was alone with Celeste again, perhaps for the last time.

  “I may have to ask you to leave the room,” he muttered, holding up the lamp to look for dates on the various tin boxes stacked on shelves. “Looking for papers is the last thing on my mind.”

  “Same here,” she murmured. “This whole tower is enchanted, I believe. Perhaps there really are spirits here.”

  “If so, then you may be carrying the spirit of my great-grandmother,” he said cynically, finding the box he wanted and pulling it down.

  She didn’t respond. He tried to believe it was because she didn’t wish to distract him while he searched.

  He feared it was otherwise, but he didn’t want to hear any more absurdity about spirits and ceremonies and . . . fertility rites. He didn’t need to be reminded that one thing led to another. He couldn’t afford a squalling babe and nannies.

  He could very well have sacrificed the last of his freedom—and so had Celeste. His hands shook with guilt. He was a man consumed with the need to fight injustice—not a lady’s man. How had he come to be caught on the horns of two wrongs?

  She took the lamp, freeing him to sort through files of cramped handwriting and dozens of worthless receipts someone had thought valuable. He put that box back and started on the next.

  At her continued silence, Erran halted, and studied her expression in the pale light. Without her voice to tell him how she felt, he was lost, but he could acknowledge the one thing that had changed between them. He knew what was expected of him, even though he feared she might have other ideas. As she’d said, Jamaica’s customs were different from England. A woman who would wear trousers and ride astride might not think what they’d done so very important.

  “You do understand that no matter what I find or do not find here, that I will marry you? You do not need to worry about all the inanity they were spouting upstairs.”

  She grew still, and her expression indicated her thoughts had drifted elsewhere. Then she shook herself, and seemed to return to normal. “They are right. This is a very odd place.”

  That wasn’t precisely an acceptance of his proposal. But it hadn’t been much of a proposal, either. He understood that she might not have done what they did last night if it hadn’t been for the weirdness of the tower. Erran thought it an excuse for doing what they’d wanted to do, but he wouldn’t argue if she preferred to believe they’d been enchanted.

  “Ask Aster about the legends,” he advised, returning to searching. “History doesn’t have to repeat itself if we learn from the past. I, for one, do not wish to be supporting a dozen bastards as most of my family has done.”

  “I don’t think you’re in charge of that,” she said pertly. “Women may have few rights, but they have the right to say no.”

  He hid his wince. “True. I shall remember that and keep my trousers buttoned.”

  Angry, he almost passed over the slashing handwriting of what he assumed was still another letter from some long dead solicitor. But the name on the address rang a bell, and he pulled it out to peruse it more carefully.

  “By Jove, I think we’ve found it,” he said in awe and delight.

  Twenty-four

  Clasping the valuable documents to her breast, Celeste tried not to dance up the stairs. They had the will! They could chase Lansdowne’s thieves from the plantation, and Nana and Jamar could be happy again! Miracles happened.

  She wouldn’t have to fret about an enchanted castle and a tempting man for another night.

  Lord Erran had proposed to her! Very badly and only because it was the honorable thing to do, she acknowledged. Yet a noble Englishman had thought well enough of her to propose.

  Only she held freedom in her hand now. She couldn’t give up her dream of going home and restoring order. The people there needed her. Erran patently did not.

  “Can we ride out now?” she asked in excitement. “It’s not even noon. How soon can we be home? Will your friend sail us or must we take a carriage?”

  Erran—her lover, her solicitor, her impossibly difficult hero—retrieved the packet from her hands. “If we leave now, we’ll end up at the dreadful inn by nightfall. I don’t think you want that. Besides, we need to make a good copy of these and have witnesses attest to the accuracy of the copy, then leave the originals here. Should anything happen to us, your family will still be protected.”

  The dratted man had a way of hitting her with reality. Celeste swallowed her alarm. He was saying Lansdowne might find some way of destroying her father’s will—or them. “It’s difficult thinking like that,” she admitted. But she’d learned the hard way how precious a few pieces of paper could be.

  Which meant another night in the tower . . . with Erran just one wall away. That raised a bewilderment of ambivalence.

  She didn’t know if she was ready to marry. She had never planned on it. She’d thought to sail straight home to Jamaica to set the plantation to rights and oversee it until Trevor had finished his studies.

  But . . . Her hand strayed to her belly. What they had done created babies. In her fever of desire last night, she’d not once given that a bit of thought. She had reason to think about it now.

  She still wanted Erran in her bed again. She was horrorstruck to realize she was a shameless wanton. She didn’t want to be a shackle on an honorable man who had made it plain that he wasn’t ready for marriage. Neither was she—but what they’d done last night necessitated considering it, however reluctantly.

  In terrified curiosity, she went upstairs to visit the newborn while Erran settled in the library with pen and paper and copied documents.

  Babies were very peaceful when they slept. She rocked the cradle and ooohed and ahhhed over the sweet-smelling infant with the other ladies. When the babe awoke with a cry, she felt the tug in her own womb as Lady Octavia took her son to her breast.

  It was natural instinct, she told herself. She had years in which to consider having a child.

  When the baby wailed and flayed his small fists in infant frustration, Celeste hastily departed. She had no notion of how to care for babies. She couldn’t even protect the family she already had. Adding more was out of the question.

  The talk of fertility rites and spirits was all foolishness—and guilt for doing what she should never have done.

  She kept her thoughts to herself as she read over Erran’s strong handwriting that afternoon, comparing the documents word for word. She watched as the other men in the household witnessed the copy and applied their seals. And the most senior Malcolm matriarch attached her own affidavit—because in the world of Malcolms, women had the same authority as men.

  Once they returned to London and filed the will, she would be wealthy again. The immensity of having her own funds staggered her imagination.

  She would not need a man to support her, to tell her what she must or must not do. She could learn to be independent and do anything she liked . . . Except share Erran’s bed again. She could not shame Trevor and Sylvia with wanton behavior.

  Torn, she claimed headache after dinner and retired early. Once more, she felt change overwhelming her, change she could not affect by using her voice to charm. Change she could not control . . . and therein lay the crux of the matter.

  When Erran entered her room through the connecting door, she felt the powerful tug she’d experienced the night before. This might be her last chance for the pleasure he had shown her . . . . He was such a beautiful man, and she could not force herself to send him away when he looked at her as he was doing.

  “We cannot do this again,” she murmured, hoping he’d tell her she was wrong.

  “We can if we marry,” he suggested. “We really ought to marry after what we did last night.” He slid his arms around her.

  “No,” she said sadly. “I will not marry because I must, not if it can be avoided. I’m not even sure I want what my p
arents had, although their love was beautiful. I just don’t think I can bear that kind of loss and helplessness again. I want to stand on my own.” That he didn’t insult her with an offer to be his mistress mitigated much of her shame.

  He pressed kisses to her hair, and the strength of her need for him prevented her from shoving away. She had discovered a new weakness—desire.

  “I can’t claim to understand,” Erran said. “But I hear your . . . pain . . . and confusion, except I’m also hearing what I want more than heaven.” He kissed her lips.

  She inhaled the bliss and felt the enchantment wrapping them again. This time, it was their inner voices urging them on.

  “I have protectives,” he whispered. “If it’s children you fear, I can prevent that. Will you trust me?”

  How could she not when her heart heard all the promises she needed to hear in his voice, overriding her mind’s objections?

  Erran was a magnificent specimen of man—all hard planes, taut muscles over wide shoulders and narrow hips. She would never know another to compare. This time, when they undressed, she dared touch the enormous part of him that grew hard and long when she stroked.

  This was how babies were made. She was almost sorry when he covered that part of him with a sheath. She lifted her knees to take him, and she caught his hips to encourage his plunge . . . one last time.

  They mustn’t ever do this again, but just one last time . . .

  As Erran thrust harder and faster with the pulse of their joined pleasure, it was as if her very being contracted in expectation. She waited for that mysterious force that had joined them the prior night, but caught up in the desire she heard in his voice as he groaned his release, she shattered with her own.

  In the aftermath, she accepted what had happened. This time, their joining had been purely physical. The ladies had been right—last night, she hadn’t imagined the oddity of spirits entering her—magic had found her womb.

  She didn’t need to wait months to know she carried his child—a Malcolm child. It was just a matter of deciding what to do about it should it survive these next difficult weeks.

  Once again, life spun out of her control—but this time, she’d been the one who had set it spinning.

  ***

  Erran didn’t know how to express his relief that Celeste allowed him into her bed another night. He’d spent these past months exerting a caution that didn’t come naturally to him. With Celeste in his arms, he didn’t need to hold back his voice.

  Other than to satisfy their physical needs—for which he was immensely grateful— he wasn’t at all certain why she continued to allow him into her bed, especially after she’d rejected his proposal.

  He should be stung that she’d turned him down after what they’d done, but he understood that she was now a wealthy woman, with a life half way around the world. He should be satisfied with that. He was satisfied with that. Surely, some day, there would be other women more suited to him.

  That would be easier to believe if he wasn’t existing in a state of total lust for this woman and no other.

  They set out at dawn in the chilly autumn air, but the clouds and wind had died away. The cart carried their bags and enough food for their luncheon, so they merely stopped at the inn at the edge of the forest to return their nags and hire a post chaise.

  Erran tried to draw Celeste out on her plans, but she returned to her former restraint. He’d enjoyed their camaraderie on their earlier ride and missed it now. He didn’t have a great deal of experience at gossip or chatter or whatever ladies preferred. He didn’t know how to find a topic she’d like.

  So as the chaise traveled toward the town where he intended to stay for the night, he spoke of his family’s interests and why he might spend the next months traveling on Duncan’s business.

  “The town where we’ll be staying this evening has one of England’s older worsted mills. The conditions there are different from those in the more populated areas in the west,” he told her. “Because we have relations in the area who have reported the mills to Ashford, we’re more familiar with them than some of Lansdowne’s other properties.”

  She looked up with interest at mention of the earl. “He owns mills near here?”

  “He doesn’t own them outright. He’s part of a consortium pretending they aren’t dirtying their hands in filthy trade. They call it investing.” Erran shrugged, trying to keep anger from his voice, even though he realized Celeste wasn’t influenced by it. It still felt peculiar to express himself after these long months of keeping his lips sealed.

  “That’s drawing a fine line,” she said with more spirit than she’d exhibited all day. “Since slave trading is no longer legal, one could say men owned slaves as a future investment against the time the commodity becomes increasingly rare.”

  Erran shot her a look of admiration. “You are quick. And Lansdowne’s mills are not much better than slavery. Women and children work over twelve hours a day. The girls who started as little more than babies are physically deformed from spending long hours crawling underneath machines, then pushing treads before their bones are fully formed. They never get proper sun or exercise or nutrition. The boys . . . are deformed from the crawling, then denied the better jobs when they reach an age where they have to be paid a man’s wage. They’re incapable of working anywhere else.”

  “Women don’t have to be paid a proper wage?” she asked, catching the nuance. “Bending over a sewing machine for hours is difficult work. If the mill machines are worse . . .”

  “Sitting at any machine from dawn to dusk has to be excruciating,” he agreed. “But every time Duncan tries to introduce a bill limiting the hours and raising wages, the mill owners scream they can’t pay for their machinery if they do that, or they’d have to charge too much and lose sales. They say reform will bring about the demise of England’s economy.”

  “Which is why the earl needs our money?” she asked in perplexity. “In case he has to actually pay his workers?”

  Erran made a rude noise. “That would mean planning to lose on the labor law. He built his wealth on the slave trade decades ago and has yet to find an income so lucrative to cover the expenses of that great monument to himself that he erected on his estate. He needs an influx of outside cash, and you’re it.”

  “And I don’t suppose he intends to pay back my father’s estate with income from his investments,” she said sharply. “That is like saying he is more important than us. Do all men of wealth consider their needs more important than those who work for them? That’s arrogance.”

  Erran shrugged. “I call it thievery, but it is nothing new. Since well before medieval times, history shows that those who have, take, simply because they can. Human nature does not change no matter how civilized we call ourselves. Strong wins over weak and morality is viewed as the domain of preachers and women. Lansdowne will contest your father’s will. You need to be prepared for that.”

  “But he will not prevail, will he?” she asked anxiously. “I want to believe we have some hope of repaying your family for their kindness. Goodness should be rewarded.”

  Erran thought guiltily of the house he’d planned to take from her once they won the case. “We are not all good or evil. Seeing Lansdowne defeated and justice prevail is its own reward.”

  “And if he has fewer funds, he will be less likely to support your candidate for prime minister?” she asked, groping to understand the situation.

  “His vote is easily purchased. That is one of the reasons Duncan must come to town. A marquess wields more power than an earl. Surely you cannot be interested in politics?”

  “I’ve never been given an opportunity to understand them,” she admitted. “The island is small. A small group of men rule it. They met occasionally in my father’s study, but I was not included. Now that I’m seeing how those meetings must have worked, I am rather appalled. It appears to my limited knowledge that all women and children and most men are slaves to those with the wealth and infl
uence to negotiate away the rights of others. And if those men put themselves first—there is no justice in that.”

  “I had not carried the notion that far, but there is some truth in it.” Erran admired how quickly she grasped what so many did not. “Children, of course, do not have the understanding to have a choice in their welfare.”

  “There are those who believe women don’t have the wits to deserve choices,” she responded acerbically. “I’ve certainly learned my limitations under the law when a cousin I don’t even know has the right to usurp all that is mine simply because he is male!”

  Erran grinned. “Did men know there were women such as yourself, they might have second thoughts about leaving the vote only to men—but I cannot promise those thoughts would be positive in your favor.”

  She shot him a darkling look but must have heard his amusement. She offered a tentative smile. “You tease. I was not certain you could.”

  “There is much we need to learn about each other,” he agreed, to his own shock. “I move too much in a man’s world and too little in yours.”

  “You must show me your world,” she suggested. “England is strange to me, forcing me to leave what is familiar and comfortable. But if I could look at it from a position of security . . . I might adjust.”

  Was she telling him that she might stay if he could offer her “a position of security”? And what the devil would that be? Not a solicitor’s office, he felt sure.

  He’d have to ask Theo how he’d persuaded Aster to take on a house full of obstreperous men.

  But Aster had her own security—like a father who would crack whips if his daughter was harmed. Celeste had no one—and she must stand between her younger siblings and the world.

  He was beginning to see the problem. He didn’t have any more to offer than she did. In fact, if he won back her family estate, she would have more security and power than a barely employed third son.

  In thoughtful silence, they rode up to the inn he’d chosen for the night.