One Touch of Magic Read online

  “Good day, ma’am,” he answered, his own voice deep, and rich with humor. “It appears you are in quite a situation.”

  She smiled at him. “Indeed. The wheel is stuck,” she pointed out unnecessarily. “I am meant to be in Upper Hawthorn to meet my sister.”

  “Well, I would offer my assistance, but perhaps I should introduce myself first. I am Miles Rutledge.”

  “The new Lord Ransome. Yes, I thought so. I’ve heard much about you. I am Lady Iverson.”

  “I have heard of you, as well.”

  Sarah looked up at him quizzically. “Have you indeed?”

  “Of course. The famous Lady Iverson, the lady antiquarian. I am eager to hear more of your activities. But, in the meantime, perhaps we should turn our attention to this emergency, and get you into the village to meet your sister.”

  He leaned down to look closer at the wheel, one hand on the edge of her phaeton. She stared down at it, fascinated. It was a strong hand, dark, long fingered, capable, with a small white scar on its back. In the deepest, most secret part of her mind, she saw that hand resting on her bare arm, sliding along her skin. . . .

  She shook her head to clear it of this new silliness, and managed to paste a bland expression on her face just as he straightened up.

  His eyes narrowed, as if he suspected her improper thoughts. Or maybe he was just preoccupied with his problem, for he said, “If you will permit me, Lady Iverson, my house is not far, and I would be happy to lend you my carriage to fetch your sister. Then I could return here with some of my men, and free your phaeton.”

  Sarah was tempted. Mary Ann would be waiting. And the chance to be with Lord Ransome a bit longer was also a most pleasant prospect. More extensive conversation with him would reveal that he was just a man, like any other, no doubt wrapped up in hunting and drinking and other such dull pursuits, with no appreciation for the beauties of history and culture. His good looks would have no charm for her, then.

  Then, too, she truly needed more time to examine her predicament, vis-à-vis Lord Ransome. Her fate, as it were.

  “The horses . . .” she began, glancing toward the pair. They stood there calmly, while the cool water lapped about their knees. Occasionally, they bent their elegant heads to take a drink, apparently enjoying the holiday.

  “It is not far to the house,” he assured her again. “They won’t be here very long.”

  “Very well,” Sarah agreed. “Thank you, Lord Ransome. You are most kind.”

  “Not at all, Lady Iverson. My reputation in the neighborhood would suffer grievously were I to leave a lady stranded out here!” He laughed, that warm, whiskey-dark sound that made Sarah want to laugh along with him, despite her plight.

  Her life had been devoid of laughter, true laughter, for so long.

  “Now, try to stand up, and I’ll pull you onto the horse,” he said, holding his hands out to her.

  Sarah balanced herself carefully on the carriage floor, and reached up for him. In one quick, smooth motion, he drew her up before him on his horse, so swiftly that she hardly realized what had happened until his arms came around her to adjust the reins. She straightened her legs along the side of the horse, and smoothed the cloth of her skirt down as far as it would go.

  She felt suddenly breathless, and uncomfortably warm. She sat forward, but Lord Ransome was still close at her back, his heat flowing through the very cloth of his coat and her gown to her skin. He smelled of sunshine and soap, and his chest when he brushed, ever so briefly, against her back was hard. She didn’t know if she could make it through even the short ride to Ransome Hall without breaking down into giggles, or something equally unseemly. She doubted her mind could focus on anything at the moment, not even on simple polite conversation.

  No man except her husband had ever been this close to her before, and John, as dear as he was, had never caused such confusion in her usually ordered mind.

  And that had to be the explanation, she told herself. This was simply a new experience for her, and the sensations would fade as soon as the novelty of it wore off.

  Somewhat reassured, Sarah smiled and leaned back, until she remembered that solid, warm chest behind her, and sat bolt upright again.

  “Mr. Benson tells me you are working on, er, digging up a Viking village,” he said, his voice rumbling pleasantly against her back.

  Sarah glanced back over her shoulder at him, surprised at the sound. Thus far, he had seemed content to ride along in silence, for which she was most grateful. It gave her time to get her thoughts together, so she could string words together in coherent sentences again.

  Fortunately, he had asked her about something she was always willing to talk about, even if he had described it in those odious words “digging up.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she answered. “My late husband was a well-known antiquarian, with a particular interest in the Vikings. When your uncle found some tools and coins on his property, he wrote to Sir John and we came here to explore further. It has proved to be a unique discovery; there is nothing else like it in all of England. Nothing yet found, that is. It is a complete village, probably dating from around the nine hundreds, with streets, houses, shops, things like that.”

  “I see,” Lord Ransome said slowly. “How long have you been working there, may I ask, Lady Iverson?”

  Sarah, who had just gotten worked up for a good lecture on her favorite subject, closed her mouth. She had forgotten for a moment, in her enthusiasm, that this was the man who now owned the land “her” village sat on. The man who could toss her out without a fare-thee-well.

  He probably didn’t want to hear her yammering on about shops and firepits and rubbish heaps. He probably didn’t care two straws about such things—most people did not—and wanted the old hunting box she was living in to use for hunting again.

  Hunting! When she was collecting vital artifacts about England’s very heritage.

  She took a deep breath, telling herself not to leap to conclusions, and answered, “About a year and a half.”

  “So long? I did not realize it took so much time to dig such things up.”

  There were those words again—“dig things up.” As if all she was doing was mucking about in the dirt looking for trinkets. She could see that Lord Ransome was in great need for an education.

  But not right at that moment. She had learned the value of subtlety and diplomacy, of not charging right in after what she wanted, from her husband. This was the time to begin to persuade Lord Ransome of the true importance of her work—not hit him over the head with a history lesson. Much as she would like to do that.

  “This is a very extensive site,” she answered. “My husband’s methods, which I am following, are to excavate very carefully in order to preserve the historical evidence as much as possible. Most people simply want the artifacts and objects, but Sir John saw the deeper significance of such finds. Also, the work was delayed for many weeks when—when he died.” She decided not to mention how short staffed she had been, due to fear of the “curse.”

  “I see,” Lord Ransome said. “It all sounds most interesting, Lady Iverson. I would be fascinated to take a look at it.”

  That was even better. If she could show him the actual village, it would be easier to point out all the things they had learned so far. And she relished any chance to show it off for new people.

  She smiled up at him over her shoulder. “Please, do come at any time, Lord Ransome. I would be most happy to show you the village.”

  He smiled back, and only then did she realize that, in her enthusiasm over her project and her fear that he might take it all away, she had forgotten how very attractive Lord Ransome was.

  She remembered now.

  She also remembered why he seemed so strangely familiar. She had seen him before—in her dream.

  Lady Iverson was not at all what Miles had been expecting.

  His uncle had been seventy if he was a day, and Sir John Iverson had been his crony. Miles had pictured an elder
ly couple scrambling over the fields, digging about for Vikings coins, leaning on their canes. But Lady Iverson looked as if she could not be more than twenty—and she was dashed pretty.

  The eyes that looked up at him, flashing with enthusiasm as she spoke of her work, were the golden brown color of fine Spanish sherry, slightly tilted up at the corners and framed with a sweep of long lashes. Her skin was touched with pink by the sun, with a small smattering of pale freckles over her nose and cheeks. Dark curls bounced from beneath her stylish hat, occasionally brushing his throat when she turned her head.

  She seemed impossibly young and enthusiastic, vital, warm, and so alive. Completely unlike the powdered, mannered, flirtatious ladies he had met in London after his return from the war. They had flocked about him, flattered him, when they learned he was to be the new Marquis of Ransome, but their manners had been so artificial, so shallow, after his experiences in Spain that they made him impatient.

  He was glad to escape them to the country. He was even more glad now that he had met this lady. She seemed real, full of real emotions and enthusiasms in a world of artificiality.

  He looked forward to seeing her work, to hearing her speak of it more. He still believed that that particular section of his land could be better served by crops and jobs, and he would have to tell her that very soon. He doubted that seeing her work would change his mind. But he did not have to say that just yet. Right now, he wanted to enjoy her company.

  All too soon, they arrived at Ransome Hall, and he was forced to take his arms from around her small, slim figure and help her down from the horse onto the graveled drive. Almost immediately, the front doors opened, and his uncle’s butler—his butler—Makepeace appeared.

  “Lady Iverson,” Makepeace said, too well trained to show any surprise he might be feeling at seeing her there. “What a nice surprise to see you today.”

  “Hello, Makepeace,” Lady Iverson said. “It has been far too long! I fear I had a bit of an accident, and Lord Ransome very gallantly rescued me.”

  “An accident, my lady?” Makepeace asked, his tone alarmed.

  “Her phaeton is stuck in the stream not far from here,” Miles explained. He had stayed on his horse, intending to ride back immediately to fetch her team. “I thought I would take some of the stable lads back to help free it. In the meantime, could you order the carriage to be brought about for Lady Iverson’s use? She is to meet her sister in Upper Hawton.”

  “Of course, my lord. Right away,” Makepeace answered. “Perhaps you would care to come inside for a cup of tea, my lady, while the carriage is summoned?”

  “Thank you, Makepeace. That would be most welcome.” Lady Iverson climbed up the stone front steps behind the butler, then turned back to Miles and said, “And thank you again, Lord Ransome. I do not know what I should have done without you!”

  “Not at all. I was glad to be of assistance, Lady Iverson. I trust we shall meet again soon?”

  She smiled at him. “Of course. Please do come to the site, whenever it is convenient. We are working on it most days.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  He looked forward to it very much indeed.

  Chapter Four

  “Sarah! Here you are at last. I’ve already finished my luncheon, and quite despaired of your appearing before teatime. I was so worried—what happened?”

  Mary Ann leaped up from her seat before the fire in the private parlor of the King’s Arms Inn. The remains of a meal were indeed scattered about the table, and a book lay abandoned on Mary Ann’s chair.

  Sarah put her arms about her sister, and kissed her cheek. “I am so sorry, dear, but I was unavoidably delayed. There was a tiny accident with the phaeton. You know how Mother is always saying I’m a fool to drive that dangerous carriage about!”

  “An accident!” Mary Ann pulled back to examine her carefully. “Are you injured?”

  “Not a bit. But where is Lady Hammond?”

  “Oh, she left almost as soon as we arrived. She said she had to get to York before dark,” Mary Ann said carelessly. She took Sarah’s arm and drew her over to sit by the fire. It was a warm day outside, but the thick old walls made the room chilly. “It is quite all right, though. Rose is here, you see, and everything is very proper.” She gestured toward a young maid who sat in the corner, quietly sewing. “Let me get you some tea, Sarah. You must be so tired after your ordeal!”

  Sarah gratefully accepted the cup of tea Mary Ann poured for her; its smoky warmth was soothing after the long, arduous morning just past. But her mind still kept going back over her meeting with Lord Ransome, kept thinking about him, wondering about him and if he would keep his word to come look at the Viking village. It took a great deal of effort to pull herself back into the present moment, and her new duties as a chaperone.

  “Lady Hammond never should have left you alone here,” she murmured.

  Mary Anne laughed, and sat down in her abandoned chair opposite Sarah. “Do you expect anything else of a friend of Mother’s? All most of them are concerned about is their own convenience. I was surprised she agreed to convey me this far!”

  Sarah had to smile, for it was all too true. All their lives, ever since the death of their father when Sarah was ten years old and Mary Ann and Kitty just babies, they had been dealing with the vagaries of their mother and her empty-headed circle of friends.

  “All the same, it was most irresponsible of her,” she said, setting her empty teacup down on the nearest table.

  “I felt perfectly safe here,” Mary Ann said. “The innkeeper gave me this lovely parlor to sit in, and the serving maid has been telling me all the local on dits. Besides, I am glad Lady Hammond is gone! You are much merrier company than she is.”

  Sarah smiled at her. “I am glad to see you, too, Mary Ann! You are looking very well.”

  And she was. Mary Ann had always been the prettiest of the Bellweather girls, with darker eyes, smoother, light brown hair, and a creamy skin untouched with freckles. Her dainty prettiness was set off by her stylish dress of white muslin printed with tiny blue flowers and a pale blue spencer. It was easy to see why their mother had such hopes for Mary Ann on the Marriage Mart.

  It was just too bad that she, like Sarah before her, displayed absolutely no interest in Society and a proper Season.

  “I have been reading a great deal about the Vikings,” Mary Ann said, holding up her book. It was a study of the Viking voyages of the ninth and tenth centuries, a work Sarah was very familiar with. “I cannot wait to see your village! It sounds a bit like this site in Scotland.”

  “I’m very glad you’re so enthusiastic, Mary Ann dear! You will be a great help to us, I am sure. Your sketches are wonderful. But what does Mother say about your studies?”

  Mary Ann shrugged blithely. “She does not know! As long as I go to teas and musicales and shops with her, she never notices how many books I take out of the lending library.”

  Sarah had a suspicion about why Mary Ann displayed this sudden interest in the Vikings, but she hoped she was wrong. Just in case she was not, though, she said gently, “Mr. Hamilton will be coming back from his wedding trip soon. He will be glad of your assistance, too.”

  The animation faded from Mary Ann’s face, and she looked down to her lap. “Yes, that is what the maid said, that the—the Hamiltons are returning soon from Scotland. I must say I was surprised when we got your letter telling us of his marriage. Was it not rather sudden?”

  “Perhaps. He did not know Miss Harris very long, to be sure. But sometimes love will not be denied.” Sarah rather suspected that the marriage had more to do with the former Miss Emmeline Harris of Bath’s ten thousand pounds than passionate love. She could hardly say that to Mary Ann, though, remembering her sister’s infatuation.

  “No, of course not,” Mary Ann said. She looked up, a fixed smile pinned on her lips. “I am sure you are remembering my silly infatuation of last year, but you needn’t worry. I am quite past that! Mother says I will meet far
more dashing men in Town.”

  Sarah smiled and nodded, even though she did not believe it. In her own experience, most of the men in Town were silly fools and peacocks, but she didn’t want to dash any of Mary Ann’s new excitement. “You will have your choice of beaux, I’m sure.”

  “I am more interested in what’s happening here. The maid told me there is a new marquis at Ransome Hall. Have you seen him yet?”

  “Once,” Sarah answered shortly. She didn’t really want to talk about Lord Ransome yet—she was still puzzled and confounded by him, and wanted to think about him some more. “Only briefly. I am sure we will see him while you’re here, though.”

  Mary Ann gave her a laughing glance. “The maid said he is handsome, and a dashingly brave Army officer.”

  Sarah laughed. “He is handsome, I admit, but I could not say if he was ‘dashingly brave,’ having never seen him in battle. Are you thinking of trying your hand at some matchmaking, Mary Ann?”

  “Of course not! I am not our mother.”

  “Good. Because I am not thinking of marrying again at all. Now, are you quite finished here? We should be getting back to the hunting box before tea. Mrs. Taylor made you her special almond cakes.” Mrs. Taylor was Sarah’s faithful cook, who had been with her since her marriage to Sir John.

  “Oh, wonderful! And I can’t wait for a glimpse of your village, too.”

  The drive back to the hunting box proved to be a quiet one. After Mary Ann imparted all the news of their family, and Sarah told her about Phoebe’s visit, Mary Ann took out her book again and instantly became absorbed—or seemed to be.

  This left Sarah time to reflect at length on her odd morning—and reflect she did, on Lord Ransome particularly. It was hard not to think about the man, when she was riding in his very own carriage.

  She leaned back against the buttery-soft leather of the squabs, and ran her hand over the tufted seat. It was a most comfortable and luxurious equipage, and she could swear she caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap and sunshine scent.