Into the Woods (9 page)

"That's quite true, sir," Declan said, trying to sound humble. "A woman does make a house a home."

As he waited for Vanessa to consume her soup—and the potion—he wondered if she'd look at him the way Matilda Candy had last night. He wondered if her eyes would devour him, if she'd be tempted to taste him. The memory distracted and aroused him, and shaking the memories and the arousal off was more difficult than it should have been.

Vanessa finally lifted her soup spoon, and Declan caught his breath. He wouldn't have to wonder for long. She finished every drop, taking small, dainty sips from her well-polished, ornate silver spoon.

The soup was followed by a tasty fish and a selection of well-prepared vegetables. Declan ate but he tasted nothing. He tried to carry on a casual conversation with Vanessa throughout the meal. He wanted her attention on him, wanted to see the passion creep into her violet eyes as the potion took hold.

She was a woman. If she felt passion for him she'd think herself in love, and when he asked her to marry him she'd say yes without hesitation. He wouldn't have to suffer poor Henry Langford's fate.

The meal was a leisurely one. A half-hour passed. A quarter-hour more. Declan began to fidget in his chair. Why wasn't it working? Vanessa remained calm, polite, ladylike. There was not so much as a flicker of interest in her cool eyes.

Finally, slices of a delicate white cake were served. Vanessa declared herself much too full to even think of dessert, and then she rose to take her leave. She bid Declan a courteous good night and thanked him for his company, kissed her father on the cheek, and left the room without so much as a single backward glance.

Declan watched the empty doorway where she had not lingered and felt a crushing defeat. It hadn't worked. There had been no fire of passion in Vanessa's eyes, not so much as a flicker of longing. She had not once looked at him as if she wanted to devour him, hadn't one time smiled with promise and yearning. Somehow the powder had lost its potency overnight.

Matilda was just going to have to try again.

Chapter 6

Matilda delivered toffee, spiced nuts, bread, and bottled rose water to Mr. Fox, along with a few jars of rose-petal jelly and three slender bottles of vinegar of roses. She collected the empty basket from last week's delivery, as well as a shipment of spices he'd ordered for her and the few coins difference in this week's transaction. It wasn't much, as the spices were costly.

Mr. Fox was his normal chatty self, talking about the dry weather and the fact that a few of the farmers had discussed the possibility of bringing in a rainmaker—a solution he dismissed as ludicrous.

She'd just begun the walk home when a low, deep voice spoke, much too close to her ear.

"It didn't work."

She started and glanced over her shoulder just as Declan stepped to her side and matched his stride to hers. "What didn't work?" she asked breathlessly.

He looked down at her, annoyance in his narrowed dark gaze, tension in the set of his jaw and his lips. He wore a suit, as always, but the jacket looked as if he'd been squirming all morning, and the top button of his white shirt had already been unbuttoned. "The potion. What else?"

She knew good and well that the potion she'd made was effective. Hadn't she suffered in taking it herself? Hadn't she studied Declan Harper until a strange warmth had almost made her forget herself? "But..." she began weakly.

"It didn't work on Vanessa," he clarified. "I'm not criticizing your efforts," he added, the tone of his voice less sharp as they stepped from the covered boardwalk and into the sun. "We know the potion did possess some... interesting qualities. For some reason it did not work when I administered it to Vanessa. Perhaps it lost its potency overnight, or perhaps it's effective on some people but not all."

"I'll give you your money back," Matilda said. "I'm so very sorry it didn't work for you." She wasn't sorry at all, she decided. Marriages shouldn't be made with powders and potions, but with love. She frowned at the unexpected thought, glancing past Declan to the tree-lined road that would lead her home. Love brought nothing but heartache and pain to those who suffered from it. There was, perhaps, a momentary bliss, but what followed was always so messy and agonizing.

"I don't want my money back," Declan said sharply. "I want you to try again."

Matilda shook her head. "That's not a good idea. Maybe it's for the best that the potion was ineffective. Maybe it isn't fair to win a wife with a tonic meant to set her heart afire for a short time."

"Fair?" Declan said, a spark of amused incredulity in his voice. "Life isn't fair, and I am certainly no tower of integrity."

Matilda couldn't help but smile, in spite of Declan's apparent seriousness. "Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?"

He cocked his head to look at her and returned the smile. Oh, she liked what a simple grin did to his face, how it made him look warmer. Softer.

"You've found me out," he said softly intimately. "I am a ruthless man who will do whatever is necessary to get what I want."

Matilda's heart did a strange little flip in her chest when he smiled at her this way. Something deep inside fluttered and she found herself, once again, staring at the fascinating lines of his neck. It looked very... tempting. She shook off the response, dismissing it as a lingering aftermath of the potion. Heaven knew she still felt the unnatural warmth that concoction had inflicted upon her. And the powder hadn't worked on Vanessa Arrington at all?

"I suppose I can try one more time," she finally conceded. "But no matter what happens, no matter how badly you want something to bring Vanessa to you, I refuse to prepare anything I think might be hallucinogenic, and I will have to draw the line at killing animals for their... parts."

"I'm in total agreement," Declan said calmly.

Matilda swung her basket lightly. "I will need a few more days, of course. Come by the cottage Sunday evening, after dark. I'll have something for you then."

She expected him to make a quick escape and head back to town, since their business was concluded, but he didn't. He simply nodded and then glanced into her basket.

"What do you have there?" he asked conversationally.

"Spices," she said, holding the basket up so he could see. "Jamaican ginger, cinnamon, and cloves."

"What will you make with them?" He seemed truly interested.

"Sweet bread and cookies."

"My mother makes the best cinnamon raisin bread," Declan said. "It's really fabulous. Unfortunately," he added with a narrowing of his eyes, "it's the only thing she can cook that's worth eating. When I made some money, the first thing I did was hire her a cook."

"A man who will hire a cook for his mother can't be totally ruthless," Matilda said lightly.

He glanced at her, narrowing his eyes and trying to look harsh and failing miserably. "I was required to eat Sunday dinner at her house every week," he answered. "Trust me, my motives were completely selfish."

She stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face Declan. He stopped as well and stared down at her. There was something undeniably brutal in the set of his jaw and his mouth, something as heartless as he claimed to be. But in those dark eyes she saw something more; she saw his heart.

"Why are you trying so hard to convince me that you're incapable of doing something nice?" she asked.

"Because I'm not nice," he insisted, leaning closer to her, trying, and failing, to appear threatening. "Nice guys don't get anywhere in this world."

"How very miserable you must be, if you really believe that," she said, resuming her journey.

"How very naive you are," he countered as he followed, "if you don't."

She kept expecting him to turn back, to head for town and leave her to finish her walk alone, but he didn't. He talked about his sisters, in an offhand way that made her certain he missed them but would never admit it. He talked about the house he'd built for his mother, and she didn't bother to point out to him that there couldn't possibly be any selfish motives involved in giving such a gift.

She told him how she needed to mend the fence that surrounded her flower garden, and how if it didn't rain soon she'd be hauling water from the spring-fed pond near her cottage to see that her plants survived the summer. She told him about caring for the plants in the greenhouse, and preparing the lotions and powders her customers required of her.

He laughingly asked her if she ever sat down to rest. If she ever read a book or sat by the pond doing nothing or took a nap in the afternoon. She thought about his questions for a moment before shaking her head.

In no time at all, they were at the cottage. Declan seemed surprised, just as he had last week, to find that they'd come so far so quickly.

"I'm going to have to get you on a horse," he muttered.

"I don't think so," she answered with a smile.

She was reluctant to turn her back on him and say good-bye. He seemed just as reluctant to turn and begin the walk toward town.

"It was very nice of you to walk me home," she said softly.

Declan cocked his head and looked at her strangely, his eyes sharp, his lips thinned. He had looked at her this way after taking the potion. This look was less open, less audacious, but still she could see... something undiscovered waiting for her. Something new and exciting.

With a long, deep breath, Declan took a single step closer. He was going to kiss her, somehow she knew it. If she were smart she'd turn away before he had the chance to do such a thing, but all her intelligence failed her. She wanted to know what his lips felt like on hers.

Another aftereffect of the potion, she imagined dismissively.

His head tipped slowly toward hers, reluctant and unerring at the same time. Ah, he was no doubt suffering, as she was, from the aftermath of the powerful aphrodisiac they'd consumed. He was likely as confused as she was.

Her confusion fled, and she simply accepted what was to come. Her heart skipped a beat, she held her breath, her eyes drifted almost closed... and then with a jerk Declan pulled away from her.

"What the hell?" he snapped, spinning around quickly.

"What is it?" Matilda asked, her voice much too small for the moment, hazy, disappointed.

"Something hit me in the back."

As he spoke, another small projectile flew from the forest, a pebble that barely missed Declan's thigh.

"You'd better get out of here, mister," a familiar voice called from the shelter of the trees. "She's a witch. If you kiss her, she'll turn you into a toad!"

"You little..." Declan muttered, taking a long step toward the forest. From the trees they heard a squeal, a shout, and the sound of brush being abused as Hanson and Gretchen made their getaway.

"My closest neighbor's children," Matilda explained. "They can be difficult, but I'm sure they meant no harm."

Perhaps they'd meant no harm, but whatever spell had enticed Declan to try to kiss her was broken. She knew it would be foolish to pursue such an inappropriate interest, and from the wary look on his face, so did he.

"Sunday evening," he said as he backed away.

Matilda smiled and nodded and then turned, relieved to retreat into her cottage.

* * *

Declan had been uncommonly restless all weekend, so it was no wonder that he arrived at Matilda's house in the woods long before dark. And no mistake. The only way he knew to cure restlessness was to work it off. Good, hard, physical labor was the best way to take his mind off Matilda and her bewitching eyes.

All his life he'd found release in activities that strained his muscles and made him sweat. When something went wrong, he headed for a pile of logs that needed to be split, or his second brother-in-law's wildest horses, or a pile of hay in his first brother-in-law's barn. Anything to make the spinning in his mind stop.

And right now his mind was definitely spinning.

He tethered his horse behind Matilda's greenhouse, in a shady spot where the stallion would be cool and there was plenty of grass on which to graze. And here the horse would be out of sight, should someone drop by. Maybe Matilda was called a witch, maybe she didn't care what others thought of her. But that didn't mean she didn't have a reputation to consider. It wouldn't look right for his horse to be outside her house all afternoon and into the night.

He carried the tools he'd brought with him and headed for the back of the cottage. Without thought, he smiled. He liked this place. It was solid and cozy, substantial and charming. The walls of stone set it apart from the other homes in and around Tanglewood, but something less tangible made it homey.

Maybe it was the way flowers grew so abundantly and brightly around the cottage, or the way the lacy curtains whipped in the breeze. Maybe it was the way the air always smelled of baked bread and rose water and sweets. And maybe, he thought as he caught sight of Matilda in the garden and came to a halt, it was her.

She carefully picked flowers, studying one bloom and then another before either plucking the blossom and depositing it in her small basket or moving on to the next flower. Today she wore a natural linen blouse and a full forest-green skirt. Long braided pigtails, gold in the sun, hung down her back. He couldn't see her feet, but they were most certainly bare.