Must Be Magic (6 page)

Hope welled in her eyes. “Could you, please?”

Her plea devastated his normal thought processes, and he struggled to find the logic behind her request. “You hate Lady Leila that much?”

She blinked in consternation and shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Those baby rabbits will munch her seedlings to the ground and grow into great big rabbits that will mow down her entire garden,” he pointed out.

“But they're babies!” she protested illogically. “It's not fair to hurt the helpless.”

Bound by her lack of reason—or her tempting curves—Dunstan surrendered. He tugged at his sleeve to release his arm from his coat. “You want to raise bait for Lord Staines's hounds?” he suggested.

She shook her head and watched him with wide eyes that made him feel vastly interesting as he peeled off his coat.

“You have a fox at home that prefers rabbit stew?”

She chuckled as she caught on to his warped humor. Shaking her head, she checked the rabbits again, then watched with even greater admiration as Dunstan removed his vest.

“We could put them in a pen and fatten them for dinner,” he offered, hoping to lessen the impact of her eyes and the spring night and the sweet scent of a woman's perfume. His gaze fell to her bee-stung lips, and he swallowed, hard.

“They're
babies
,” she insisted.

His brain gave up on logic and focused on frailty and females and the desire to do whatever made her happy. Even in this poor light, he could tell her simple gown covered ample curves unhampered by a corset. He could reach out and touch her breasts with just…

He took a deep breath. “You have some suggestion as to where to move them?”

Leila beamed. She'd known she could trust Dunstan Ives, even if he was the most obstinate, irritating male alive. “Do you think you can? Mama Rabbit won't like it.”

Dunstan touched his finger to his lips to silence her, then with surprising stealth for so large a man, he flung his coat over the mother rabbit and trapped her in its folds.

“Use my vest to carry the little ones.” He clung to the struggling rabbit while Leila delicately lifted the mewling creatures into the silk of Dunstan's vest.

“Where to?” he demanded.

Rather than explain, Leila headed off across the field in the direction of the rocky hill ahead. Feeling freer than she had in ages, laughing eagerly at this chance to slip her bonds, she led the Ives a merry chase. She could smell his lust and disbelief and laughter, felt the astonishing rise of ardor within herself, and exulted in the newness.

“Here. There's a crevice here.” She crouched down to show him the opening into the hill. “May I use your vest to soften the nest?”

“By all means,” he answered with a dryness that would have done a desert proud.

She smiled at the return of his usual dour nature. Swiftly and methodically, she slipped the vest with its precious contents into the protected shelter behind a boulder. When she was done, she sat back to let Dunstan release the mother rabbit. She held her breath until mama sniffed and twitched her nose and located her babies, then hopped into the hill and out of sight.

The laughter of relief and joy spilled from her lips, and daringly, she leaned over to hug Dunstan's brawny neck. “Such a lovely man! Thank you, sir. Few others would be so kind.”

Ah, the scent of him! He filled her lungs with the precious aromas of adolescent nights and stolen kisses, of a time when all things had seemed possible and desire was new. Her breasts tingled and swelled at just the brush of his shirt. His lust and the scent of a spring night aroused all her senses.

He stiffened and stood up quickly, breaking her impetuous hug. “Few others would be so stupid,” he said gruffly. “The creatures will nibble Lady Leila's flowers as fast as they grow.”

Stubborn man! Her flat boots brought her eyes to a level with his neckcloth when she rose to stand toe-to-toe with him. Leila contemplated strangling him with his cravat, but whimsy won out. She tilted her head and studied his locked jaw. “Then the lady will build a fence around the flowers. That's your responsibility, isn't it?”

Before Dunstan could react in his usual surly manner, Leila wrapped her fingers in his linen, stood on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his bristly cheek. “You're not nearly as wicked as you pretend, sir.”

With a swiftness that caught her by surprise, he wrapped his big hands around her waist, lifted her from the ground, and captured her mouth. His kiss stole her breath, tingled her toes, and annihilated all ability to think. Parting her lips to his probing tongue, she clung to his shoulders for support as he accepted her offer.

Before she recovered her spinning senses, he abruptly set her back on her feet, grabbed his coat, and strode away.

Oh, my! Leila touched her fingers to her aching lips and let hunger flow to parts of her body long denied as she watched him walk away. He seemed to have no idea that he'd just awakened desires she'd never dreamed of.

Somewhere beneath the cold, controlled exterior of Dunstan Ives lay a wild stallion chomping at the bit.

It really wasn't healthy to keep all that passion reined in. What would happen should she unleash it?

Intrigued, she rubbed her fingers over the lingering man smell of him on her cheek and deliberated.

In the rosy light of early morning, Leila happily studied the workshop she'd created in her late husband's dairy. Her mother had sent equipment and vials of perfume bases from her own stores. Leila had ordered workbenches and shelves built to her specifications. She'd also purchased expensive scents from other gardeners so she could begin experimenting before her own fields grew. Finally, after years of Teddy's disapproval, she had everything she needed to begin her lifelong dream.

Teddy must be rolling in his grave.

Crossing to the window overlooking the gardens that would flourish with flowers once Dunstan applied his formidable knowledge to them, she breathed in a sense of accomplishment.

She'd conquered society for her husband's sake. Now she was creating beauty for her own. And if all went well, she hoped to achieve far more than beauty.

Of course, all she'd accomplished so far was to plant a few struggling roses and make some scented soap. With a sigh, she returned to the vat of tallow and fat cooking on the stove. She'd adapted the family recipe to suit her delicate fragrances, but she thought a dash more lye would better befit a man like Dunstan Ives.

Remembering the manly chest beneath his worn linen, she smiled wickedly. She might not possess any Malcolm gifts, but she could recognize lust when she smelled it—the earthy Dunstan Ives craved the equally earthy woman in red. His scent evoked memories of long-ago days when she'd thought marriage would be filled with passion and excitement.

She hadn't thought to find passion in widowhood. She reached for the oil of patchouli. She was thinking forbidden thoughts, but she couldn't help comparing the Dunstan who rescued baby rabbits with the arrogant gentleman who sulked in ballrooms and ignored a lady's requests. She'd deliberately worn a mask of happiness and sensuality all these years to hide her unhappiness and lack of passion. Could Dunstan be hiding in the same way? Was he even aware of it?

She touched her nose and gazed over her choice of scents, then seized the container of dried honeysuckle.

She had stirred the liquid soap to perfect consistency and was in the process of pouring the batch into molds when a clatter of light feet and a spate of feminine giggles in the stone corridor warned that some portion of her family had arrived.

She almost felt irritation at being thus disturbed. She loved her family and she loved company, but right now—

“Leila, we've brought presents!” a sweet voice called—her younger sister, Felicity.

“Leila, was that an Ives we saw on the road?” Willowy and fair, Christina danced into the room. “No one has an aura like an Ives. I swear, the man exuded male—”

“Christina!” Leila reprimanded. “Felicity is too young to hear that.”

“Felicity is a dull bookworm who may not
wish
to hear, but she's certainly old enough.”

Ignoring the petty squabbling of her sisters, Felicity wandered along Leila's workbench, pushing her spectacles up her nose to inspect labels, refraining from touching anything with her gloved hands. “This is so much nicer than Mama's workshop. Could you make a scent for me?”

“It can only be a common scent,” Leila warned. “I don't have my own distillations yet.”

Felicity poked at the soap molds and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I trust we will not bathe with these. They are very strong, and not very pretty.”

More experienced in scents, Christina bent to smell, too. She threw Leila a roguish look as she straightened again. “Musk. These are for a man. Not the Ives, surely?”

Impatiently, Leila discarded her apron and strode toward the door. “I assume Ives men must bathe as others do. Come, let's have some tea, and you can tell me of your journey. Will you stay long?”

“Mama wants me to debut this year,” Felicity called, clattering ahead of them, stopping occasionally to inspect decorations in the dairy's tiled walls. “But I don't think I shall marry. Surely we have wealth enough by now. The family coffers do not need my contribution.”

Leila laughed at the old complaint. “You have not yet been kissed, have you? You'll change your mind.”

Felicity favored her with a disgruntled look and raced ahead. Leila's nose twitched at the scent of anxiety Felicity left behind, reminding her of her own first come-out. The scent summoned vivid memories of moonlit nights and overeager suitors. She'd been brash enough to try their kisses. Felicity wasn't.

She missed her sisters and the hurly-burly of society. She ought to be with her family for their debuts and triumphs, not plodding through muddy fields. But muddy fields might produce the means of truly becoming part of her family. She had to try.

She refrained from rubbing her nose and let memories of past glories fade. Candlelit balls and glittering jewels didn't equate with happiness.

Christina dallied behind, swinging her beaded reticule. “Lord Harry Hollingswell has asked Father for my hand,” she said casually. “I've known him all my life, and even if he is only the duke's younger son, Aunt Stella says we will suit.”

“You know better than any of us if he's a good man,” Leila replied cautiously. Love had little to do with Malcolm marriages. They all knew that. Men seldom understood the Malcolm gifts, and where there wasn't understanding, there couldn't be love. Still, the deeper knowledge of character provided by their gifts allowed them to arrange solid marriages that provided wealth, more Malcolms, and a higher level of satisfaction than most.

Ninian had unexpectedly thrown over all expectations a few years ago by marrying for love, and minor rebellion had occasionally rippled through the younger set ever since. If Leila could save her sisters from the boredom and resentment she'd suffered in her marriage, she would, but without the gifts the rest of her family possessed, she did not feel wise enough to make that judgment on her own.

Christina shrugged. “Harry is good, but dull. He is only a few years my elder. We may be married a long time.”

Leila nodded sympathetically. “Then he had best be a man who allows you to go on as you wish. Tell
Maman
that. She will understand.”

“I can't read
that
much into his aura.”

“Does Harry know you read auras?” Leila asked, knowing how difficult it had been for the logical Drogo to accept Ninian's empathic gifts.

Christina glanced away. “He laughs and calls me his imaginative little creature.” Indignation tinged her voice. “Men are always pleasant and accommodating when they want something. Once they have their way, they're impossible.”

Leila chuckled. “A duke's younger son has no need to provide an heir, and Harry already knows to expect only girls from Malcolm women, so he must be marrying you for more than your looks. He will be fascinated for many years if you play your cards well.”

“I'd rather play my cards with someone exciting, like an Ives,” Christina grumbled.

“As a rule, men like that make very bad husbands. Drogo excluded, of course,” Leila warned with amusement. “Drogo has the title and wealth. The other Ives are all poor and dangerous.”

Felicity burst back upon them before Christina could reply. “There's a grand carriage coming up the drive. Are you expecting visitors?”

Leila groaned. More of the eager suitors her nephew encouraged, she supposed. Drat the brat, she had wanted to plant her new roses today, not entertain unwanted suitors.

And she wanted to see Dunstan in his shirtsleeves again. The man's immense knowledge captured her imagination, but there was something about a man in dishabille…

Foolish thought. She'd best concentrate on her guests. For the sake of her sisters and their introduction to society, she must don her smiling mask and welcome her nephew's guests.

***

The lady had demanded his presence—again.

Dunstan tugged down his overly tight vest—his good one now lined a rabbit hole, thanks to a foolish woman, or his foolish lust—and prodded his gelding toward the rose garden rising out of a rock field.

He couldn't believe he'd rescued a damned rabbit because of a woman, but it certainly served as a reminder of her different manner of thinking—and of his inability to resist her wiles.

Tying his horse to a branch, he cut across the lawn to the field where he'd found the girl in red last night. He stopped short at the sight he encountered past the hill.

Lady Leila, wearing a black gown accented with a lacy white neckerchief and a swooping black hat that concealed her face from the sun, stood watching over gardeners digging at the skeletal remains of her blighted roses.

The laborers Dunstan had ordered to clear the field worked around her, carrying rocks to a wall meant to prevent the flock of gamboling ewes and lambs from grazing the flower beds.

Dunstan glared in annoyance at the stack of brown rose canes piling up beside the workmen. He hadn't ordered anyone to touch the roses. He'd been waiting to see if any of them were still alive. Lady Leila was a damned incompetent gardener, but a determined one. Even as he watched, she shooed away a curious lamb while pointing out another blackened bush to her crew.

Fool woman was bent on building this garden, with or without him. He'd best teach her how to do it properly. Stripping off his coat and flinging it over the wall, he lifted the lamb out of the rows, gently carried it to the other side of the wall, then stalked across the remains of the rose garden.

Aware of her stare, Dunstan recognized the impropriety of appearing before a lady in his loose shirt. She'd have to get used to it if she insisted on visiting the fields. “What the deuce do you think you're doing?” he demanded as he approached.

“What do you care?” she replied, scrubbing at her cheek with the back of her gloved hand. “You have not bothered to tend them.”

“I've had men out here every day—” Coming close enough to see the tear tracks staining her fair skin, he stumbled over his tongue. “What the devil are you crying over?” he inquired, realizing even as he said it that he only made matters worse.

The lady jerked down her veil to hide her wet cheeks. “They're dead! All those magnificent flowers and magical scents—
lost.
Don't you feel
anything
!”

“They're certainly dead once you rip them out of the ground.” Not wanting to care about damned useless roses, Dunstan glared at the workmen, who were watching him warily. “Leave the bushes alone,” he snapped. “Harness the oxen to the plow. Once this field is turned, use the wagon to carry the stones over to the boundary wall.”

He didn't bother checking to see if they obeyed. From an early age, he had taken it for granted that men would follow his orders. Men followed orders. Women, on the other hand…

Dunstan wrapped his fingers around the lady's elbow, steering her away from the stack of uprooted bushes. “I'll dig out the dead ones. They were planted too early, and the change in weather damaged them. Some might still live if they're treated properly.”

“Really? You can save them?”

Her sob of relief pierced an unguarded chink in his armor.

Dunstan didn't have the words or the time or the
patience
to talk to elegant ladies, particularly ones smelling of roses and jasmine. “Maybe. If you'll stay out of my way.”

“You're a big fraud, you know.” Not moving away, she tilted her head so he could see the smile forming on her lips.

Startled at being told something similar for the second time in twenty-four hours, Dunstan dropped her elbow and glared at her. She was but a shallow flirt, and he should take no notice of her foolishness. But a small voice in the back of his head warned that she was also a Malcolm. What was she trying to tell him?

At his thunderous silence, her smile widened. “Beneath that prickly exterior of yours is a man who cares.”

Fool woman! Having expected something much more momentous, Dunstan growled, “Not about roses,” and stomped away, trying hard not to hear her laughter.

Locating the first heavy stone available, he hefted it to his shoulder and heaved it in the direction of the wall. Hard physical labor had helped ease his sexual frustration these past years. He would probably kill himself if the damned Malcolm insisted on polishing her temptress talents on him.

***

In the shade of evening, after donning her old gardening gown and slipping away from her guests, Leila examined the results of Dunstan's efforts. The wall was almost high enough to keep out the sheep, and the roses had been pruned back to tiny shoots of green. Her heart leaped wild and free with excitement.

Letting her cat scamper after a field mouse, she stooped to test the quality of the soil as she'd seen Dunstan do, and didn't realize she had company until a lengthy shadow fell across the furrow.

The scent of smoke and cards and an underlying tension told her who it was before she glanced up. Henry Wickham. He'd appeared with the other guests earlier, apparently apprised by her nephew that her sisters were on their way. She didn't remember him as being so nervous when he'd courted her in London, but he wasn't much older than herself and probably new to the activity. Annoyed that he'd caught her with her guard down, she remained kneeling.

“You have some interest in fields?” she inquired dryly, knowing he seldom left the city. Wickham wasn't a large man, but the kind of languid, lace-and-beribboned gentleman who spent far too much time at card tables and too little outdoors.

“Only in what grows in them, if you are any example,” he replied suggestively.

Leila narrowed her eyes. In the fading daylight, he stood over her, swaying slightly. She wouldn't call his words the polite flattery he usually bestowed on her. He'd no doubt spent too much time imbibing liquid courage after dinner.

She bit back the insult that leaped to her tongue and started to rise.