Whisper of Magic (28 page)

Lord Erran had
proposed
to her! Very badly and only because it was the honorable thing to do, she
acknowledged. Yet a noble Englishman had thought well enough of her to propose.

Only she held freedom in her hand now. She couldn’t give up
her dream of going home and restoring order. The people there
needed
her. Erran patently did not.

“Can we ride out now?” she asked in excitement. “It’s not
even noon. How soon can we be home? Will your friend sail us or must we take a
carriage?”

Erran—her lover, her solicitor, her impossibly difficult
hero
—retrieved the packet from her
hands. “If we leave now, we’ll end up at the dreadful inn by nightfall. I don’t
think you want that. Besides, we need to make a good copy of these and have
witnesses attest to the accuracy of the copy, then leave the originals here.
Should anything happen to us, your family will still be protected.”

The dratted man had a way of hitting her with reality.
Celeste swallowed her alarm. He was saying Lansdowne might find some way of
destroying her father’s will—or
them
.
“It’s difficult thinking like that,” she admitted. But she’d learned the hard
way how precious a few pieces of paper could be.

Which meant another night in the tower . . .
with Erran just one wall away. That raised a bewilderment of ambivalence.

She didn’t know if she was ready to marry. She had never
planned on it. She’d thought to sail straight home to Jamaica to set the
plantation to rights and oversee it until Trevor had finished his studies.

But . . . Her hand strayed to her belly. What
they had done created babies. In her fever of desire last night, she’d not once
given that a bit of thought. She had reason to think about it now.

She
still
wanted
Erran in her bed again. She was horrorstruck to realize she was a shameless
wanton. She didn’t want to be a shackle on an honorable man who had made it
plain that he wasn’t ready for marriage. Neither was she—but what they’d done
last night necessitated considering it, however reluctantly.

In terrified curiosity, she went upstairs to visit the
newborn while Erran settled in the library with pen and paper and copied
documents.

Babies were very peaceful when they slept. She rocked the
cradle and ooohed and ahhhed
over the sweet-smelling infant with the other ladies. When the babe awoke with
a cry, she felt the tug in her own womb as Lady Octavia took her son to her
breast.

It was natural instinct, she told herself. She had years in
which to consider having a child.

When the baby wailed and flayed his small fists in infant
frustration, Celeste hastily departed. She had no notion of how to care for
babies. She couldn’t even protect the family she already had. Adding more was
out of the question.

The talk of fertility rites and spirits was all
foolishness—and guilt for doing what she should never have done.

She kept her thoughts to herself as she read over Erran’s
strong handwriting that afternoon, comparing the documents word for word. She
watched as the other men in the household witnessed the copy and applied their
seals. And the most senior Malcolm matriarch attached her own affidavit—because
in the world of Malcolms, women had the same authority as men.

Once they returned to London and filed the will,
she would be wealthy again
. The
immensity of having her own funds staggered her imagination.

She would not need a man to support her, to tell her what
she must or must not do. She could learn to be independent and do anything she
liked . . . Except share Erran’s bed again. She could not shame
Trevor and Sylvia with wanton behavior.

Torn, she claimed headache after dinner and retired early.
Once more, she felt change overwhelming her, change she could not affect by
using her voice to charm. Change she could not control . . . and
therein lay the crux of the matter.

When Erran entered her room through the connecting door, she
felt the powerful tug she’d experienced the night before. This might be her
last chance for the pleasure he had shown her . . . . He
was such a beautiful man, and she could not force herself to send him away when
he looked at her as he was doing.

“We cannot do this again,” she murmured, hoping he’d tell
her she was wrong.

“We can if we marry,” he suggested. “We really ought to
marry after what we did last night.” He slid his arms around her.

“No,” she said sadly. “I will not marry because I must, not
if it can be avoided. I’m not even sure I want what my parents had, although
their love was beautiful. I just don’t think I can bear that kind of loss and
helplessness again. I want to stand on my own.” That he didn’t insult her with
an offer to be his mistress mitigated much of her shame.

He pressed kisses to her hair, and the strength of her need
for him prevented her from shoving away. She had discovered a new
weakness—desire.

“I can’t claim to understand,” Erran said. “But I hear your . . .
pain . . . and confusion, except I’m also hearing what I
want more than heaven.” He kissed her lips.

She inhaled the bliss and felt the enchantment wrapping them
again. This time, it was their inner voices urging them on.

“I have protectives,” he whispered. “If it’s children you
fear, I can prevent that. Will you trust me?”

How could she not when her heart heard all the promises she
needed to hear in his voice, overriding her mind’s objections?

Erran was a magnificent specimen of man—all hard planes,
taut muscles over wide shoulders and narrow hips. She would never know another
to compare. This time, when they undressed, she dared touch the enormous part
of him that grew hard and long when she stroked.

This was how babies were made. She was almost sorry when he
covered that part of him with a sheath. She lifted her knees to take him, and
she caught his hips to encourage his plunge . . . one last time.

They mustn’t ever do this again, but just one last time . . .

As Erran thrust harder and faster with the pulse of their
joined pleasure, it was as if her very being contracted in expectation. She
waited for that mysterious force that had joined them the prior night, but
caught up in the desire she heard in his voice as he groaned his release, she
shattered with her own.

In the aftermath, she accepted what had happened. This time,
their joining had been purely physical. The ladies had been right—last night,
she hadn’t imagined the oddity of spirits entering her—magic had found her
womb.

She didn’t need to wait months to know she carried his
child—a Malcolm child. It was just a matter of deciding what to do about it
should it survive these next difficult weeks.

Once again, life spun out of her control—but this time, she’d
been the one who had set it spinning.

***

Erran didn’t know how to express his relief that Celeste
allowed him into her bed another night. He’d spent these past months exerting a
caution that didn’t come naturally to him. With Celeste in his arms, he didn’t
need to hold back his voice.

Other than to satisfy their physical needs—for which he was
immensely grateful— he wasn’t at all certain why she continued to allow him
into her bed, especially after she’d rejected his proposal.

He should be stung that she’d turned him down after what
they’d done, but he understood that she was now a wealthy woman, with a life
half way around the world. He should be satisfied with that. He
was
satisfied with that. Surely, some
day, there would be other women more suited to him.

That would be easier to believe if he wasn’t existing in a
state of total lust for this woman and no other.

They set out at dawn in the chilly autumn air, but the
clouds and wind had died away. The cart carried their bags and enough food for
their luncheon, so they merely stopped at the inn at the edge of the forest to
return their nags and hire a post chaise.

Erran tried to draw Celeste out on her plans, but she
returned to her former restraint. He’d enjoyed their camaraderie on their earlier
ride and missed it now. He didn’t have a great deal of experience at gossip or
chatter or whatever ladies preferred. He didn’t know how to find a topic she’d
like.

So as the chaise traveled toward the town where he intended
to stay for the night, he spoke of his family’s interests and why he might
spend the next months traveling on Duncan’s business.

“The town where we’ll be staying this evening has one of
England’s older worsted mills. The conditions there are different from those in
the more populated areas in the west,” he told her. “Because we have relations
in the area who have reported the mills to Ashford, we’re more familiar with
them than some of Lansdowne’s other properties.”

She looked up with interest at mention of the earl. “He owns
mills near here?”

“He doesn’t own them outright. He’s part of a consortium
pretending they aren’t dirtying their hands in filthy trade. They call it
investing.” Erran shrugged, trying to keep anger from his voice, even though he
realized Celeste wasn’t influenced by it. It still felt peculiar to express
himself after these long months of keeping his lips sealed.

“That’s drawing a fine line,” she said with more spirit than
she’d exhibited all day. “Since slave trading is no longer legal, one could say
men owned slaves as a future investment against the time the commodity becomes
increasingly rare.”

Erran shot her a look of admiration. “You are quick. And
Lansdowne’s mills are not much better than slavery. Women and children work
over twelve hours a day. The girls who started as little more than babies are
physically deformed from spending long hours crawling underneath machines, then
pushing treads before their bones are fully formed. They never get proper sun
or exercise or nutrition. The boys . . . are deformed from the
crawling, then denied the better jobs when they reach an age where they have to
be paid a man’s wage. They’re incapable of working anywhere else.”

“Women don’t have to be paid a proper wage?” she asked,
catching the nuance. “Bending over a sewing machine for hours is difficult
work. If the mill machines are worse . . .”

“Sitting at any machine from dawn to dusk has to be
excruciating,” he agreed. “But every time Duncan tries to introduce a bill
limiting the hours and raising wages, the mill owners scream they can’t pay for
their machinery if they do that, or they’d have to charge too much and lose
sales. They say reform will bring about the demise of England’s economy.”

“Which is why the earl needs our money?” she asked in
perplexity. “In case he has to actually pay his workers?”

Erran made a rude noise. “That would mean planning to lose
on the labor law. He built his wealth on the slave trade decades ago and has
yet to find an income so lucrative to cover the expenses of that great monument
to himself that he erected on his estate. He needs an influx of outside cash,
and you’re it.”

“And I don’t suppose he intends to pay back my father’s
estate with income from his investments,” she said sharply. “That is like
saying
he
is more important than
us
. Do all men of wealth consider their
needs more important than those who work for them? That’s arrogance.”

Erran shrugged. “I call it thievery, but it is nothing new.
Since well before medieval times, history shows that those who have, take,
simply because they can. Human nature does not change no matter how civilized
we call ourselves. Strong wins over weak and morality is viewed as the domain
of preachers and women. Lansdowne will contest your father’s will. You need to
be prepared for that.”

“But he will not prevail, will he?” she asked anxiously. “I
want to believe we have some hope of repaying your family for their kindness.
Goodness should be rewarded.”

Erran thought guiltily of the house he’d planned to take
from her once they won the case. “We are not all good or evil. Seeing Lansdowne
defeated and justice prevail is its own reward.”

“And if he has fewer funds, he will be less likely to
support your candidate for prime minister?” she asked, groping to understand
the situation.

“His vote is easily purchased. That is one of the reasons
Duncan must come to town. A marquess wields more power than an earl. Surely you
cannot be interested in politics?”

“I’ve never been given an opportunity to understand them,”
she admitted. “The island is small. A small group of men rule it. They met
occasionally in my father’s study, but I was not included. Now that I’m seeing
how those meetings must have worked, I am rather appalled. It appears to my
limited knowledge that all women and children and most men are slaves to those
with the wealth and influence to negotiate away the rights of others. And if
those men put themselves first—there is no justice in that.”

“I had not carried the notion that far, but there is some
truth in it.” Erran admired how quickly she grasped what so many did not.
“Children, of course, do not have the understanding to have a choice in their
welfare.”

“There are those who believe women don’t have the wits to deserve
choices,” she responded acerbically. “I’ve certainly learned my limitations
under the law when a cousin I don’t even know has the right to usurp all that
is mine simply because he is male!”

Erran grinned. “Did men know there were women such as yourself,
they might have second thoughts about leaving the vote only to men—but I cannot
promise those thoughts would be positive in your favor.”

She shot him a darkling look but must have heard his
amusement. She offered a tentative smile. “You tease. I was not certain you
could.”

“There is much we need to learn about each other,” he
agreed, to his own shock. “I move too much in a man’s world and too little in
yours.”