Bewitched by His Kiss (May Day Mischief) (2 page)

The insult didn’t faze her; she waved his words aside with the cocked pistol and an impatient frown. “You needn’t be concerned for Alexis. I mean him no harm.”

“You may not mean it, but you’ll do it anyway. Uncock the pistol, woman. It could go off at any second.”

“No,” she said, striding away.

“No what?” He followed. “It won’t go off? It’s not loaded, is it?”

“Of course it’s loaded.” Her voice overflowed with scorn.

“Dear me. For whom was the bullet intended—originally, that is?”

Lucasta huffed.

“Do you usually come out at dawn, half-dressed and carrying a loaded pistol?”

She kept going.

“You’re not wearing stays,” he said. “You’re wearing nothing at all under that gown. To me, that indicates you intended taking it off.”

“Or that I dressed in a hurry,” she snapped, “without the help of a maid.” She whirled, waving the damned gun. “Get on your horse and go away. Come back at a civilized hour.”

“Very well, you dressed in a hurry,” David said. “I’m willing to believe that. But why? If you didn’t intend to roll in the meadow, why would you rush out here at dawn?”

* * *

He was impossible to deal with.

She lost her wits with the Earl of Elderwood. She said the wrong things, she behaved like a ninny, and much as she would like to retreat in a hurry to the safety of the house, she didn’t dare. What if Peony hadn’t finished rolling in the dew? Knowing Lord Elderwood and his absurd fascination with folk magic—he was far worse than Peony—he was here to visit the Enchanted Meadow at dawn.

She couldn’t let him see Peony. She had to keep him away until all danger of such a catastrophe was past.

“Obviously it was for another reason entirely,” she said, stalling while she tried to think of one. “You know I don’t believe that nonsense about rolling in the dew.”

It was light enough now that she saw the annoyance cross his face. How could a grown man, in this day and time, believe in such a fool’s ritual?

Oh, she admitted her own stupidity in the whole affair. Three years ago, when still living in Sussex under the care of her paternal uncle, John Barnes, she’d heard the housemaids teasing one another about rolling naked in the dew the next morning, which was May Day. Knowing it was useless to order them not to—the hold of superstition was far too great—she resigned herself to protecting them instead. The next day, she’d woken before dawn, dressed in a rush and hurried to the meadow most likely to be used for such folly.

No maids came, and nor did their swains. She’d been about to return to the house when a swarm of wasps, followed by Lord Elderwood, had disturbed her vigil—and her entire life.

Afterward, Lucasta learned that her uncle, too, had risen before dawn and prevented the maids from leaving the house, on the grounds that it would take them away from their chores, which was both untrue and unfair. Much as she hated superstition, she loathed her uncle more. He was a mean-tempered, clutch-fisted taskmaster. Until the age of twenty-five, she would be under his thumb, granted the most meager of allowances until she gained control of her inheritance. Since it was her fortune from which the allowance came, it should make no difference to him whether she spent a little more or less, but instead he kept reinvesting her earnings, assuring her that in the end she would thank him.

Now that it was near the end and her capital that much more, she was grudgingly thankful, but not because of his supposed foresight. He could never have predicted that she would need every penny to move far, far away and start a new life where no one could find her, particularly the Earl of Elderwood.

She glanced away from the wood and the meadow, frantic for inspiration, and then at the two massive oaks behind her. “I’m here to look for proof of a Beltane rite.”

“A Beltane rite.” His tone was laced with both suspicion and...interest. Perfect. She’d caught him.

Still, he might not be distracted for long. Clutching the pistol in one hand and gesturing with the other, she led him away from the wood. “According to one of the local tales, the location shifts somewhat, but if, on May morning, one follows a direct line starting with the two largest oaks on the eastern side of the wood, and crosses the brook and walks up the rise, one can see directly through to the meadow as the sun comes over the crest. Needless to say I don’t believe this—that wood is far too thick—but the only way to prove it for the purposes of my research is to go up there.” She hurried down the hill and waded into the brook, holding the pistol well above her head. It would never do to let the powder get wet. “You do know about my research, don’t you?”

“Alexis may have mentioned something,” Elderwood said, his tone now so bland that it was almost worse than open derision.

“I’m compiling a vast collection of folklore,” she said. “I intend to publish it.”

“Good for you,” he said, as if she were a child who had sewn her first crooked sampler. What a pity she couldn’t shoot him right now. Through a haze of fury, she heard him drawl on. “And what, pray tell, has this to do with Beltane?”

Nothing
,
of
course
. She set the fury aside to deal with later. “Only that the spot from which one sees the meadow is where one of the Beltane fires would be lit. The other would be in the meadow itself.”

“But the fires would be lit the night before, not the morning after, so how would one know where to light them?”

“That’s the whole point of it,” she said, struggling up the hill with the wet skirts of her gown slapping against her legs. “If the guesswork is correct and the fires are properly aligned, the fairy mound opens. Supposedly the door is somewhere near that copse at the top of the rise.”

“If you say so.”

He was right to be skeptical, since she was making this up as she went along. Down by the wood, a partridge flew from the underbrush, and Elderwood’s horse gave a startled whinny. Lucasta glanced that way, worried for Peony again.

“Why, I wonder, are you pitching me this gammon?” Lord Elderwood said with a chuckle, and just like that, he plucked the pistol out of her hand.

“Give it back!” she cried.

“The only mounds of the least interest to me are yours,” he said. “And my muff pistol is much more fun than this one.”

She was no longer an innocent and had no difficulty catching his innuendo. Damn him! The problem with suggestive words from Elderwood’s mouth in Elderwood’s silky voice was that they got her going. Got her heart pounding and her breasts tingling and her blood burning with dark, insistent desires. It made no sense at all. She’d never reacted this way to any other man. Even Alexis, who was good-looking and undoubtedly virile, didn’t arouse such feelings within her.

If she approached and tried to retrieve her pistol, Elderwood would assuredly get hold of her, and this time she would have no way of stopping the onslaught. She didn’t think he would force her, but he would make her want it, and she might well give in.

She
would
give in, and his smile said he knew it.

She stalked to the copse, swept up a fallen branch and stormed at him, swinging at the hand that held her pistol. “You’re not only disgusting, but a thief, as well. Give me my gun!”

He backed away, uncocking the pistol and slipping it into his greatcoat pocket.

She kept on coming, lashing at him with the branch.

He fended her off. “Don’t make me take that away. You might get hurt.”

She slashed him across the face with one furious swipe. Blood welled up on his cheek. He didn’t even flinch, merely grabbing the branch with one swift tug. With a curse, she let go, and he tossed it aside. She glared at him, panting. Her hand stung, but she ignored it, just as he was ignoring the blood dripping down his check.

Idiotically, her heart wrenched at the sight. An absurd wish to tend his wound surged inside her. What was wrong with her? He didn’t deserve any such consideration.

But she shouldn’t have lashed at him in such a way. What if she’d injured his eye? She wasn’t a violent sort of person. She was civilized and self-controlled...except when she wanted to kill him.

She hated to back down, but she had no choice.
Please
be
done
,
Peony
.
Please
.

He took the pistol by the barrel and held it out. “If you want your gun,” he taunted, “come and get it.”

“And get raped for my pains? No, thank you.” She took to her heels, pelting down the hill, slipping down the last of the slope to land on her derriere, getting mud on her gown and may blossoms in her hair. She scrambled up. He thundered toward her, murderous rage and a trickle of blood on his darkly handsome face.

Again her heart twisted at the sight of what she’d done. That urge to tend to him assailed her. An apology tried to force itself to her lips, but she bit it back. Yes, she’d dealt him an intolerable insult, but it served him right. She plunged across the stream, picked up her dripping skirts, and ran for the safety of the house, almost frightened at what he might do if he caught her first.

He didn’t even follow her. She heard his shout for Alexis and turned, gasping for breath. He didn’t glance toward her, merely wheeled his horse and rode away.

* * *

Rape
? Was that how she saw it? She’d fled pell-mell toward the house as if she seriously expected him to pursue her, throw her to the ground and take her against her will.

Furious and ashamed—which was entirely unjust because whatever she claimed, she
did
want it as much as he—David Elderwood dabbed the blood from his cheek and headed back to meet Alexis. He didn’t
want
to want Lucasta Barnes. Wanting her was a damned nuisance. He would far prefer to go back to his old carefree life, where he’d taken his pleasure with actresses and opera dancers and rarely considered marriage. His magical blood had meant women fell in love with him left and right, and he’d been more than happy to take full advantage of that!

Until Lucasta came along, and his long-dead mother’s warnings at last made sense.

“You will enjoy it at first,” his mother had told him, and although he’d only been ten years old at the time, he’d had no difficulty believing her. He already liked the look of women. Besides, his mother was always right. Right about the hobs and bogies—no one in the household saw them except her and David—and right that he could see paths where others saw thickets, and knew by instinct where to seek entrance to the fairy mounds. “But it will pall, if there is no love involved,” she’d said. Right again.

Now he bore with the women patiently and tried to be polite, but he couldn’t stomach them for more than a few minutes at a time. Not that he’d been celibate since that incredible coupling with Lucasta three years ago—of course not—but he’d stuck with one woman, an undemanding mistress who appreciated a comfortable income in exchange for satisfying his needs now and then. It was a boring liaison, but he didn’t have the taste for anything else. Lately, he’d had no taste for anything at all.

How could he, when he was bound to Lucasta for better or worse? This captivity was far more constraining than marriage, because it was born of magic and fueled by love and would never, ever fade.

She just didn’t understand. He’d come upon her naked in the dewy grass that morning three years ago, and she’d been as helpless under the spell as he was. Afterward, when it was too late, after they’d gazed, entranced, into one another’s eyes, after they’d given in to their mutually ravenous desire and become inextricably involved, she’d tried to deny the magic.

Because she didn’t believe in it—as if that made any difference!

She’d denied intending any such thing as calling her true love to her side. She’d insisted that she’d come out to make certain her maidservants weren’t being assaulted. She’d said a wasp had flown under her skirts and another down her bosom, and she’d ripped off her gown to get rid of them...but there’d been no maidservants in sight, and just like today, she’d been wearing nothing underneath—no shift and stays.

Rape
. How dare she accuse him of anything so vile?

* * *

Lucasta hovered outdoors, wringing out her skirts and shivering, until she’d watched Peony safely enter the house. Her vigil over and her cousin safe, she crept up the stairs, fuming. She wanted her gun back. By hook or by crook, she intended to get it.

But that was for later. Right now, she had to regain her perfect composure. She’d worked hard at it over the past three years because at all costs she had to conceal the turmoil inside. To hide and eventually overcome the restlessness that made life intolerable at times.

The only occupation that helped was the research. In that one activity, she became entirely engrossed. She had to pretend she was doing it in memory of her father, compiling his folktales according to his deathbed wish. Her father had never expressed any such desire, but he would approve of her true goal, to expose the dangers of superstition. He’d put up with his wife’s foolishness because he loved her, but he couldn’t have predicted that her belief in fairies would result in insanity after his death.

Luckily, Lucasta’s Uncle John Barnes believed and respected the deathbed story. She and Peony were distant cousins on her mother’s side. He had allowed her to take up residence at Whistleby because her father had corresponded with Peony’s about the legends there, not because he considered her capable of researching and writing anything useful on her own. To hell with him. She would soon publish a massive volume on folklore, of which she would be justly proud.

More important, she would prove once and for all that magic wasn’t real. If she could save someone else’s mother from going mad, or another girl like Peony from taking such risks, all that work would be worthwhile.

She took off her shoes, tiptoed down the passageway and tapped on the door of Peony’s bedchamber. Peony unlocked it and let her in. Naked, pink with cold and trying to divest herself of the bits of grass sticking to her everywhere, she was obviously miserable, but that didn’t stop her from laughing at Lucasta’s bedraggled appearance. “Whatever happened to you? All that mud! Your gown is ruined.”