The Magic of His Touch (May Day Mischief) Page 6
Lucasta didn’t seem angry at him, which was one small comfort. She appeared, rather, to be asking his advice—not that she was permitting him much opportunity to give it. She threw up her hands as if at her wit’s end. After a minute, Alexis said something to her, and they both raised their eyes.
Peony’s heart fluttered, but they weren’t looking her way. They were discussing something higher up and to the right, and Lucasta pointed—perhaps at the trees where the rooks always nested, or...at the Haunted Bedchamber? Not likely. Sir Alexis didn’t believe in ghosts.
He turned his head and saw her. He grinned and raised a hand, and she jumped back, hot with embarrassment and chilly with regret. What was she going to do?
For most of the day, she had no difficulty avoiding him. He rode away with Papa and Lord Elderwood to inspect the estate and see a hunter the squire had up for sale. The vicar’s wife and daughter called and talked and talked, but drove away disappointed at not having yet met the earl. Lucasta went walking for hours and behaved awfully strangely upon her return, staring into space and starting whenever anyone spoke to her. The squire and his wife and son came to dine.
Then, just after the syllabub was served, Sir Alexis said, “I’d like to spend tonight in your haunted room.”
* * *
From the babble that greeted this announcement, two voices were notably absent: Lucasta’s and Peony’s. Lucasta’s lack of reaction didn’t surprise him; she was completely absorbed in concerns of her own. Peony, on the other hand, caught his eyes for the first time all day.
He winked at her and dealt with the hubbub—the dire predictions of Mr. Whistleby’s sister and the squire’s wife, the gruesome tales of the squire and his son, the anxious protests of Mr. Whistleby, and Lord Elderwood’s seemingly uncontrollable laughter.
“Miss Barnes,” said the squire’s wife. “He’s your betrothed. Surely you can prevent him from taking such a foolhardy step.”
Lucasta emerged from her brown study long enough to say, “I’m not his keeper. Sir Alexis may do as he pleases.”
The two older ladies tutted, and Elderwood halted his guffawing for a moment and said, “Miss Barnes isn’t worried. Like Sir Alexis, she doesn’t believe in ghosts or magic or any of that folderol. Miss Whistleby, however, appears quite concerned.”
Peony had been pale all day, but now she rivaled the tablecloth for whiteness. A twinge of remorse assailed Alexis—but only a twinge. “Sir Alexis, I don’t think it’s a wise plan,” she said. “Many people have tried and come down from there extremely shaken. Once you get in, it—it can be frightening, and it’s often difficult to find the way out.”
Alexis grinned. “That’s not the way to dissuade me, Miss Whistleby.”
“I understand a young man’s desire to take up a challenge,” Mr. Whistleby said, “but many have come to regret it.”
Alexis shrugged.
Mr. Whistleby sighed. “We have established a procedure for those who wish to spent a night there. You may take with you one candle, a small jug of wine and a bell. No one will hear you if you ring the bell in the room, but if you are in the corridors, someone might hear and come to rescue you.” He sighed again. “Or might not.”
“Perfect,” Alexis said. “I wager I’ll come down in the morning as sane as I went up.”
Elderwood snorted, still quivering with laughter. The squire’s son shuddered and said, “Bet you don’t last an hour up there.”
“How much?” returned Alexis.
The lad reddened. Was he one of the locals who didn’t find Peony attractive? Had he perhaps braved the room, but failed—bested by a girl who didn’t fear the room at all? “Pockets to let,” he mumbled.
“Ah,” Alexis said. “So you fear you might not win.”
“I cannot be held responsible for the consequences,” Mr. Whistleby said.
“There won’t be any,” Alexis said, fervently praying there would.
* * *
Peony couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the wind that might be ghosts or the footsteps that might be bogeys. Ordinarily those didn’t bother her, but if they were worrisome down here, they would be downright terrifying for someone in the Haunted Bedchamber. Did Sir Alexis think he would prove that ghosts didn’t exist? Or that bogeys weren’t real?
Was he, deep in his heart, fighting the magic as much as she?
She hoped so, she truly did, no matter how much it hurt, but this drastic method wouldn’t work. The people who professed most strongly not to believe were the ones who came downstairs shattered. Or got lost coming out and fell down the stairs in the dark!
Papa had shown him to the bottom of the staircase and instructed him where to go from there. Unable to stop herself, Peony had hovered behind. “I cannot send a footman to guide you,” Papa said. “It’s hard enough to keep servants here without expecting that of them.”
“I’ll be fine.” Alexis had disappeared up the stairs with his candle, bottle and bell. His footsteps had died away, and Papa had ordered Peony off to bed.
An hour went by, two hours, three... Maybe his candle had gone out, and he’d lost his bell. That sort of mischance was only too likely. Even now, he might be desperately groping his way through the convoluted corridors.
No, he wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like the squire’s son or others who’d gone up there with much bravado and returned shaking. Alexis would sit it out, determined to prove that magic didn’t exist. He wouldn’t give up or give in. She pictured him rocking before the fireplace in the dark, covering his ears against the noise.
She couldn’t bear it any longer. She lit a candle, tucked her feet into her slippers and headed for the stairs.
* * *
The Haunted Bedchamber had an unexpectedly lived-in appearance. The Elizabethan tester bed was fitted out with a mattress, sheets and pillows, and a coverlet. A bookcase held several volumes of poetry, as well as two novels by Mrs. Radcliffe. There was even enough wood in the basket by the fireplace to start a fire on the remnants of the old, which by the look of it wasn’t from long ago. Did Peony use this room as a retreat?
He removed the key from the door and pocketed it. He knelt before the fireplace and arranged a tidy pile of kindling, then took a small taper to light from his candle’s flame. A rattle sounded in the chimney, a gust of wind whistled down and his candle went out.
Alexis laughed, wondering if this happened to everyone. He got out his tinder box, coaxed a small flame to life and held it aloft where a draft from the chimney wouldn’t reach it.
A flapping casement did. No wonder people were easily unnerved up here.
He lit another piece of tinder. “Do as you please, but this isn’t meant to be a test of my belief,” he said. “It’s a test of Miss Peony’s.”
Dead silence greeted this. He got his bearings, blew out the little flame and went to shut the window, but the bolt was broken, so the wind would open it again soon enough.
Very well, he opened it wide. The moon, now a day past full, shone helpfully into the room. Clouds scudded past, blocking its light, then freeing it again. Footsteps skittered behind the paneling; could be mice or...could be bogeys. Alexis didn’t particularly care. What he believed or didn’t had nothing to do with what existed—or didn’t. “Louder,” he said. “Make all the commotion you can, if that’s what it takes.” Briefly, he explained his predicament, in case the ghosts and bogeys didn’t already know. “Wake her up to the fact that she can’t call upon love an
d then deny it.”
Whoever or whatever it was that did or didn’t exist had a go at testing him, as well. He’d never been in a room full of so many night noises—creaks, hisses, moans and busy little footsteps. More than once, something seemed to brush past him in the darkness. He wasn’t afraid of rats, so he ignored whatever it was. He took off his coat, shoes and stockings, and tried out the bed; it creaked, as well, but bore his weight. He drank some wine. He tried to light the fire again, but a draft from nowhere blew the flame out. He huffed, and spent a good long while watching out the window. He spied Elderwood’s tall figure striding across the lawn, coattails flapping in the wind. He spared a brief thought for Lucasta, who didn’t need to believe in ghosts; she was battling specters of her own.
Shortly after that it began to rain, first softly and then in such a downpour that he had to hold the window shut. The room went wild with commotion, but he stuck it out until the rain stopped and the wind died down. He tried lighting the fire again. This time it caught. By the light of the flames, he read his watch: almost three o’clock.
Five minutes later, soft footsteps approached the room—human ones. “Sir Alexis?”
“Miss Whistleby.” He shucked his shirt; might as well have some advantage to start with. He opened the door and smiled down at her. “Have you come to rescue me?”
Her eyes widened, and he thought she blushed. She averted her eyes from his bare chest and came slowly into the room, a candle in one hand and a key in the other. “I feared the bogeys might have locked you in and stolen the key.”
He took the key from his breeches pocket and silently showed it to her. “I left the door unlocked for my beautiful rescuer.”
Her eyes rested on his chest again. She swallowed and faced the fireplace. “Did you start the fire without difficulty? Did you hear no footsteps or moans?”
“I heard plenty, and the fire took three tries. But whether or not I believe in ghosts or bogeys is beside the point. The one whose belief is in question...is you, my love.”
* * *
My love...
Those precious words echoed through her mind and heart. She tried to capture and crush them, tried to cast them as powder to the wind. Tried to stifle the clamor within her at the nakedness of his chest, its powerful masculinity far more compelling than what she’d imagined.
Half-naked or not, he didn’t need rescuing, so she should leave. She turned.
He got to the door before her, locking it and pocketing the key again. “Until you finally got here, I was wondering whether you believe in magic at all.”
“Mostly, I do,” she said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have come to make sure you were all right.” She firmed her resolve and went to the door. “Please unlock it again.”
He stood with his back to the door. “Not on your life.” His smile broke her heart. “Do you come to check on every fool who tries to spend the night up here?”
She shook her head. “No.” She blushed. “Never before.”
“Because you didn’t care about them. You do care about me.”
Why must he gaze at her so tenderly? She tried to clench her fists, but her whole being trembled with weakness.
“You love me,” he said.
Helpless to deny it, she nodded.
“You rolled in the dew to call me to your side. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t believe it would work. Well, it did work, and here I am.”
“Just because you’re m-my true love,” she whispered, “doesn’t mean I’m yours.”
“What sort of useless magic would produce such a lopsided result? Come now, sweetheart.” He took the candle and key from her and set them on the floor. “It’s all or nothing. Either you believe or you don’t, and if you do, you’re mine as much as I’m yours.”
He pulled her into his arms. She inhaled the masculine scent that was his alone. Little sparks of desire flared into life within her breasts and belly, and she was lost...
No. She stiffened, turning her face away from his. She mustn’t let her love for him overcome reason and common sense. “You don’t want to marry. You told me as much, and Lucasta confirmed it.”
“Lucasta doesn’t know her own mind, much less mine. I didn’t want to marry when we began our false engagement. I didn’t believe the woman existed with whom I would want to spend my life—and then you came along, with your courage and determination, your long legs and sweet breasts and kissable lips, and changed everything. Why do you think Lucasta and I agreed to end it whenever one of us wished to? Because either or both of us could have fallen in love and decided to marry.”
“Not Lucasta,” Peony said irrelevantly. The fires of pleasure spread, licking along her limbs, making her toes curl and her fingertips yearn to explore every inch of that bare chest and more.
His kissed her hair. “I did fall in love, and whether or not it was caused by your magic spell doesn’t matter to me. I love you and I want to marry you, and that’s that.” His lips wandered to her temple, nuzzling and kissing. The heat of his hands penetrated the thin fabric of her nightdress, stoking the flames. His fingers caressed her back and strolled to her hips, paused and then settled on her bum.
She tried to wriggle away; this, she knew full well, was the moment of truth. She couldn’t give in to him now and refuse to marry him. He held her firmly against him, separating her buttocks slightly. Desire shivered, swelled, rampaged through her. The long, hard promise of his member told her he wanted this as much as she.
Did she believe, or didn’t she? She thought of all the touches of magic in her life thus far. She’d chosen to believe in them, but... “You wouldn’t have bedded me if you’d known I was a virgin.”
“Yes, I would have—but after we’d tied the knot.”
That made sense, but how could she know for sure?
“You’ll just have to believe me, Peony.”
No, that wasn’t it, or it wasn’t all. And it wasn’t only her belief in magic that was at risk. Magic might work as expected, or it might not. One never knew.
More than anything, she had to believe in herself. Believe that she was lovable and beautiful. Believe that she was not hopelessly flawed, but worthy of this man.
He gathered her nightdress in his hands and pulled it over her head. He made short work of his pantaloons. “Is the bed haunted?”
“Not that I know of.” Oh, how wonderful he was, from top to toe, and how fearless and sure. If she were to be such a man’s wife, she must be fearless and sure, as well.
“Good, because rolling in the dew is all very well, but it’s only a prelude to this.” Alexis took her by the hand and pulled her down with him onto the bed. “See how perfectly we fit together?”
They did, legs to legs, chest to chest, mouth to hungry mouth. Peony was only an inch shorter than him, and it worked. She wasn’t too tall, and there was nothing awkward in the way she knew how to kiss him, no shyness in how she reached to stroke him.
She wrapped her legs around him and invited him in where he belonged.
* * * * *
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ISBN: 978-14603-1096-0
The Magic of His Touch
Copyright © 2013 by Barbara Monajem
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