* * *
There, she’d admitted the worst. Cool, composed, ever-in-control Lucasta was frightened and had been for years. She shook in his arms. She was soaked through and so very cold, but the fear chilled her more.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of superstition. Of not knowing for sure. Of imagining things and acting on them when they don’t exist.” She huddled against his warmth. “And of madness. My mother believed in fairies. She left them gifts of milk and bread, and even sewed tiny suits of clothing. My father put up with it, although he thought it foolish. It didn’t seem to matter much until he died.”
“And then?”
“She refused to believe that he was dead. She—she thought the fairies had stolen him.”
“An older man?” he said. “Not likely. Usually it’s—But you probably know more about this than I.”
How extraordinarily kind of him, and most likely untrue. “I know it makes no sense.” With difficulty, she added, “Whether or not one believes in fairies.” There, she’d conceded a little, and it wasn’t as painful as she’d expected. “But grief had completely unhinged her. She wandered the Downs in her nightclothes, searching for him, and got lost in the rain. A few days later, she died of an inflammation of the lungs.”
“I won’t let that happen to you.” He swept her off her feet and headed toward the house with great, purposeful strides.
“Oh, G-God,” she said, as realization struck. Her teeth began to chatter. “I’ve gone and done exactly the same as my mother.”
“Except that I’m alive, so you’re not allowed to die.” Nothing got in his way, not wind or rain, not branches or roots or walls of trees. Holding her close, he carried her up the side stairway and into his bedchamber.
He stripped off her wrapper and nightdress, dried her with a cloth and wrapped her in the counterpane. He deposited her on the carpet before the fireplace. Moments later, the banked fire was ablaze.
She couldn’t stop shivering. “You’re d-drenched, too.”
He stripped, dried himself and joined her inside the coverlet. He held a flask to her lips. “This will help.”
She didn’t care much for brandy, but it burned its way down, warming her from the inside. He took a swig as well, then stoppered the flask and put his arms around her. She leaned into him as the shivering subsided. How comfortable and safe.
How ridiculous. There was nothing safe about this situation. “I still don’t know what to do.”
“Listen to me, my darling,” he said. “Forget about believing in magic.”
She huffed. “How can I, when it’s all you think about? As a general rule, I’m in favor of the truth, but where magic is concerned, there’s always another explanation, and there’s never any real proof.”
“Precisely.” He dropped a kiss on her still-damp hair. “That’s why you get to choose what to believe.” He’d said much the same thing at dinner the night before, but she hadn’t realized the implications. “Perhaps I should explain to you why I do believe in magic. Unlike you, I haven’t had much choice.”
She leaned into him, willing to listen, wanting to. He deserved to be listened to properly. She owed it to him.
“I know you find it hard to believe that my mother passed fairy blood to me, but the proofs were with me from early childhood. Of everyone who dwelt in our various houses, she and I were the only ones who saw the hobgoblins and other magical creatures. Only she and I could find our way to woodland paths that others simply didn’t see.”
He’d known unerringly where the path to the meadow was, that other morning. He’d reached her in a few swift strides tonight, while she’d struggled and gotten nowhere. He’d made love to her in a mossy glade that otherwise didn’t exist.
“It wasn’t just at home, either. I made friends with the hobgoblin at Eton and stole food to leave out for him.” He chuckled. “In return, he punished the Latin master, who took particular delight in caning me for any and every infraction. If you don’t believe it, ask one of my schoolmates about the time the old bore tried to cane me for insolence. He danced about the room, shrieking with pain because the hob was pinching his legs, and eventually the cane flew out the window. My schoolmates couldn’t see the hob, but they laughed themselves silly at the master’s plight.”
The story made her smile, but...even if she asked his former schoolmates, none of them would believe anything magical had taken place. They would only remember a schoolmaster with severe leg cramps who had lost control of his cane.
“No, there’s no proof,” David said. “But I know what happened, and I owe it to the fairy creatures to believe in them. I am obliged to believe in magic...but you are not.”
She sighed. “You truly don’t mind if I can’t believe?”
“Not if you love me enough to accept me as I am, too. I didn’t understand until lately, but that’s how love works.”
He loved her, and love was something she could believe in...but was it enough? “It’s not that simple,” she said. “You’ll argue with me constantly.”
“And you’ll argue back.” He grinned at her in the friendly firelight. “And then we’ll go to bed and do something we both agree on.” He stood and lifted her, counterpane and all, and carried her to the bed. He burrowed under the covers to join her.
“Lust isn’t enough to overcome such a vast difference of opinion,” she said. That didn’t stop her from putting her arms around him, from stretching against him, from reveling in the exquisite sensations of skin to naked skin.
“But love is,” he said, nuzzling his way down her throat, fondling her breasts and seeking her core. He entered her, and they were one. Pleasure filled her, but more than that, happiness such as she’d never felt before.
He kissed her long and slowly. “Love is the greatest force in existence.”
Yes. That, she could believe. She sighed deeply and gave herself up to love.
He smiled down at her. “And—just for the sake of argument, mind you—it’s also the greatest magic.”
* * * * *
If you liked this story, don’t miss book one of Barbara Monajem’s May Day Mischief duet, available now from Harlequin Historical UNDONE!
The Magic of His Touch
Tired of being paraded before every eligible bachelor, Peony Whistleby decides it’s time to find her true love—through the ancient custom of rolling naked in the dew on May Day morning. But the magic goes awry when she is caught in the act—and by an entirely unsuitable man. And yet, the way his eyes linger upon her flesh ignites a sensual craving that can only be satisfied by his touch...
Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Harlequin Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:
How to Seduce a Sheikh by Marguerite Kaye
In Bed with the Highlander by Ann Lethbridge
The Magic of His Touch by Barbara Monajem
Unveiled for the Persian King by Linda Skye
Lost in Pleasure by Marguerite Kaye
Submit to the Warrior by Tatiana March
His Wild West Wife by Lauri Robinson
The Virgin’s Debt by Tatiana March
An Improper Duchess by Amanda McCabe
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ISBN: 978-14603-1308-4
Bewit
ched by His Kiss
Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Monajem
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Bewitched by His Kiss (May Day Mischief) Page 6
