Bewitched by His Kiss. Barbara Monajem

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ