Dreaming (33 page)

Thwack
! The dining-room door at
Belmore
Park
burst open.

Startled, the Duke and Duchess of
Belmore
both looked up from their meal.

A plump red weasel waddled into the room.

“
Beezle
!” Joy shifted quickly, trying to move her chair back, which was impossible with the size of her burgeoning belly.

A slim white cat prowled in after the weasel, who had plopped down beneath Joy’s chair, yawned, and promptly fallen asleep.

“Joyous, my dear.” The MacLean sailed through the doorway like Queen Charlotte. Her long golden hair was piled high on her head, and the hem and sleeves of her white silk gown shimmered with golden beadwork that looked like rays of the sun.

“I’ve been so worried,” Joy said, struggling to rise from her chair. “Where have you been these past days?”

“
Och
! Just a wee spot of charity work. I see we’re in time for dinner,” the MacLean said, deftly changing the subject.

Alec rose and helped Joy from her chair. “Unfortunately, MacLean, we are not serving eye of newt tonight.”

“Hmmm, so I see.” The MacLean eyed the course. “Brussels sprouts, sweetbreads, beets, buttermilk.” She lifted a lid on a silver serving dish embellished with flying birds. “What is this?”

Alec stood a little taller, but it was Joy who spoke. “Duck liver.”

“Duck liver?” The MacLean shivered.

“’
Tis
one of Alec’s . . . uh . . .
our
favorites.”

“Looks perfectly vile. I do believe I would prefer newt eyes.” She moved closer to another dish on the table and smiled. “Ah hah! I see something appetizingly familiar.” She stuck one long slim finger into a dish of clotted cream and strawberries and took a small taste.

“Ugh!” Her face puckered. “What is in that? Pickled herring?”

Joy nodded.

“Is this what you’re feeding my great-niece?”

“Nephew,” Alec said stubbornly. “For hundreds of years, Mary MacLean, the firstborn
Castlemaine
has always been male.”

The MacLean just smiled.

“Alec . . . ” Joy warned.

“Would you consider making a little wager on it, nephew?”

“Certainly.”

“Alec . . . please.” Joy placed her hand on his arm.

“Now Scottish, this is between your aunt and myself.”

“Aye, Joyous, listen to your husband. He is a duke, an Englishman, and thereby certain he is absolutely right.”

Alec’s eyes narrowed.

“If it is a lass,” the MacLean continued in the same arrogant tone Alec had used, “you shall name her after me.”

“And if it’s a boy?”

“If, perchance, it is a
laddie
 . . . ” The MacLean tapped a finger against her lips thoughtfully.

“If it is a boy, you will swear to never again cast another spell, only for a jest,” Alec said firmly.

“Agreed.”

Joy shook her head and muttered, “Not again.”

“And I would suggest,” the MacLean added, “that you refrain from broom closet, cauldron, and eye of newt comments.”

“I warned you, Alec,” Joy said.

“You women seem to think I cannot control my tongue.”

“Of course not, my love, but—”

“Care to add to the wager, nephew?” The MacLean smiled, and her gray eyes flickered with just a little wickedness.

“Add to your heart’s content,” Alec said, crossing his arms in a gesture of challenge.

“Fine.” The MacLean gave Alec a direct look. “Should you make one of those comments again, then I will add to the wager that you must name
every
lassie you have after me.”

“Agreed,” Alec snapped.

Joy groaned.

Alec looked down, sudden worry for her etched upon his handsome face. “Scottish. Are you well?”

“Don’t panic. I’m feeling fine.” She gently patted his chest. “Nothing is wrong with neither me nor the baby.” She gave a small sigh. “I just wish you two would stop goading each other into these foolish bets.”

“Mary, Mary,” came a deep voice from the doorway. “Making those wicked wagers of yours again?”

They all turned.

Townsend the butler, who hadn’t had the chance to do his job, announced quickly, “Mr. Mather H. Calvin.”

Standing in the doorway was a strikingly huge man with dark red hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a black coat and black trousers, and he handed Townsend his black caped coat with more flourish than the actor Keane.

“Mather Calvin?” the MacLean said with a laugh. “You are wicked, my friend.”

The man smiled. “I try.”

“Now I understand why I haven’t seen you,” Joy said to her aunt.

Alec placed his hands protectively on her shoulders.

“Little Joyous.” The man crossed into the room and stopped in front of her. His darkly wicked gaze traveled slowly from her head to her waist.

Alec tightened his grip on her shoulders and stood suddenly taller.

“My
my
. Not so little anymore, I see.”

She laughed.

“What’s this? Now that you’re a duchess you have no hug for your Uncle Hamish?”

Joy wiggled out of Alec’s hold and went easily into the man’s arms.

“
Uncle
?” Alec said.

Joy turned and reached out a hand to Alec. “Not truly an uncle. But a long-time friend of the family.” Then Joy introduced them.

Each eyed the other
assessingly
, then Hamish turned to the MacLean and nodded. “He’ll do.”

Alec gritted his teeth.

Joy caught the look and quickly asked one of the footmen to add two more place settings, then turned back and said brightly, “Aunt, surely you would like a sherry. Uncle Hamish, please would you pour her one? It’s over there.” She pointed at the liquor cart.

“
Uncle Hamish
?” Alec said under his breath. “Who in the bloody hell is he?”

“He’s a warlock.”

“What!”

“
Shhhh
. Please, Alec. He’s from
America
.”

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Please don’t be angry. Besides which, he always keeps my aunt very busy whenever they’re together.”

Alec stared across his dining room. A witch and a warlock were casually conversing in the corner, sipping his sherry, talking about . . .

What in the devil could they be talking about? The art of zapping? Cauldron stirring? Whatever in blazes a newt was?

Joy touched his arm and whispered, “I know what you’re thinking.”

Alec wondered if he would ever become used to this.

“Don’t say it, or you’ll lose your wager.”

He glanced down at his wife, the little witch who owned his heart. One look into that face and he knew what truly mattered in his life.

He was looking at her. And he continued to do so for a very long time. “Fine, Scottish, I’ll behave.”

She gave his chest a small pat with her hand as she always did, then said, “Thank you.”

Sliding her arm through his, she started to lead him across the room.

“I’ll behave,” Alec muttered. “But who’s to say whether or not they will.”

After a few minutes, Joy managed to get her aunt aside and asked quietly, “What have you been up to?”

“Up to? Why nothing, my dear. What have
you
been up to?”

“You know what I mean. Why is he here?”

“Why is he here?” the MacLean repeated innocently. “Oh, you must mean Hamish.” She glanced at the warlock for a moment, then, with a wee whisper of a smile, she looked down at Joy and said, “I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

It was a day that many a folk in
Glasgow
would never forget. In particular, one Angus MacFarland, a penny-pinching old goat who had just served eviction notice on the Glasgow Street Foundling Home.

No amount of tears or groveling had changed Angus’s small mind. The orphaned lads and lassies of the home were not his problem. He walked past the lines of children, children who had been praying and wishing on first stars for weeks in the hopes that someone, somewhere, would save them. Angus never looked at a single teary little face. He just flung open the front doors and stormed through.

Yes, Mr. Angus MacFarland would remember that day. As would those who heard that penurious old Angus MacFarland had broken his leg on the very steps of the Foundling Home. Seemed he had tripped over a heavy leather sack filled with gold.

The supreme irony of a miser breaking his leg on a sack filled with gold did not escape many. People snickered for days.

The sack, it seemed, had carried a tag that said “To the Glasgow Street Foundling Home. Believe in the magic of wishes.”

Now some called it God’s hand at work. Some said that fate had stepped in. But to those children and to the women who ran the home, it was the magic of a dream come true.

Chapter 20

“Do ye think he’ll come ’round?”

“Depends on how hard she hit him.”

Way off in the distance of his hazy mind, Richard realized the voices he heard were talking about him.

“I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

“There, there, missy. Stop
yer
crying. Ye didn’t mean to bash him like ye did.
Phineas
, go fetch some water and we’ll wake him up.”

Richard slowly opened his eyes. A group of surprises faces, three of them identical, stared down at him. His throat was dry, so he swallowed and said roughly, “You throw water in my face again and the only work you’ll have will be mucking out every filthy stable in
Devon
.”

“You’re awake,” the hellion whispered with relief.