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  “Friggin’ filth.” Feeling another tear escaping, Leila set the cat aside and dug at the roots of a plant, trying to discover some sign of life. But there was no sign of anything she could understand. She didn’t know enough. All her book knowledge and learning were for naught.

  Pounding the ground with her fists, she shouted, “Hell’s bells!” At least out here in the privacy of her garden, she had the freedom to curse and rail at the heavens.

  She smacked at a wayward tear and choked back despair.

  Perhaps she was an anti-witch. Perhaps her every touch brought death instead of life. Maybe she really wasn’t a Malcolm.

  Horror struck her at the possibility. She would not think that. Ever.

  She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, smearing her face with mud. “I just want to be useful,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet.

  She refused to believe she was without any ability at all. She knew she had a talent for scents. Her sisters loved the ones she’d created for them before she married. Perhaps she could buy the flower bases from other growers.

  But other growers were simpleminded jingle-brains who didn’t know how to pick what flower under which full moon, and they mixed varieties and scents indiscriminately. She wanted everything to be perfect.

  Looking at her pitiful rows of distorted roses, she felt panic plucking at her heartstrings.

  She’d married a man who could give her this fairyland setting of farmland, and then he hadn’t let her plant it. She’d ignored his objections, and Teddy had run his hounds and horses through her tender plants. She’d moved her flowers elsewhere, and he’d ordered those acres turned to sheep. She’d been frustrated in every way by her husband, and now it seemed that even nature had turned against her.

  She grabbed her hated black curls, tugged, and scowled at the threatening sky. In response, thunder rumbled in the distance.

  She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t. Now that Dunstan Ives had arrived, she would pay him to do what she could not. She would risk whatever spell Ives men had over Malcolm women to find the gift that she must possess.

  Wiping her hands on her skirts, she stalked from the field to escape the approaching storm.

  Climbing the stile near the road, she watched a rider top the crest of the hill, silhouetted against the backdrop of boiling thunderheads. Cloak flowing over wide shoulders, thick dark hair swept back by the wind to reveal a square jaw, he appeared to be lord of all he surveyed.

  Dunstan Ives.

  Now, there was a throat she’d like to slit—a nice, strong throat. If he’d only taken the position when she’d first offered it, these disasters might have been averted.

  But no, the goddesses forbid that a proud and worldly man submit to the command of a lowly female.

  The servants had informed her that he’d moved into the steward’s cottage. He must have been out surveying the land he meant to plant without consulting her.

  Hands on hips, thinking bloodthirsty thoughts about her new hire, Leila watched Dunstan’s progress with a far higher degree of interest than he deserved.

  He kicked his mount to a gallop down the hill, apparently attempting to outrace the approaching storm. Surely he was not riding back to tell her he could not take the position after all.

  More likely, the prancing jackass had just viewed her blighted gardens and come to rub her nose in failure.

  Letting the wind catch her black curls and blow them off her face, Leila waited to hear his opinion of her multifarious disasters.

  Lightning struck in the distance, and thunder crackled. If Dunstan had been a true gentleman, he would have offered her a ride back to the house before the storm broke. But the all-male households of Ives men offered few gentle influences. Barbarians, the lot of them. The damned man was practically upon her and hadn’t slowed his mount yet.

  Her red skirt billowed in a sudden gust of wind. Another crack of thunder rolled across the sky. Dunstan’s horse whinnied in fear and balked. Leila admired the man’s skill in bringing the huge gelding under control.

  Reining in his frightened mount, Dunstan finally looked at her as she stood on top of the stile, wind whipping her hair and skirt—until a stronger burst of wind and a crack of thunder blended with an ominous snap above her head. Leila caught his look of horror but didn’t have time to react before the branch whipped across her shoulders. With a scream, she lost her footing and plunged forward.

  The horse reared, and Dunstan, reaching out to catch her, lost his balance just as the cloud burst open, unleashing a torrential rain. With a yelp, he rolled on his shoulder and landed in the lane with Leila on top of him.

  He lay still, spread-eagled in the mud, staring up at the clouded sky, rain pouring in rivulets down his chiseled cheekbones, mixing with the dirt in his raven-black hair. Sprawled across his sturdy chest, Leila thought she’d killed him.

  Frantically, she slapped both sides of his jaw, trying to jar him back to life. She didn’t have the slightest notion what she should do. She just knew this man exuded the most exciting aromas she’d ever known in her life, and she needed the wretch. “You can’t die on me now,” she yelled into the wailing wind. “Stop playacting and get up. Get up!”

  Slowly, his gaze swiveled to focus on her. She knew the instant she had his attention. The element of lust shot sky high. Fascinated, she didn’t bother moving from her unladylike position across his chest.

  “I am up,” he said solemnly, although with a touch of bewilderment. “I daresay if you would care to oblige by moving a little lower, I’ll be more up than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Heat suffused her face and spread lower. Annoyed, Leila smacked his face again, but he only smiled with the dazed look of a man who’d been unexpectedly offered heaven. The wretch was absolutely irresistible, even if he was an accursed Ives. Daringly, she propped her elbows on his broad chest and inspected him as if she were a common wench and he, her inamorata. “I think I’ve cracked your brainbox.”

  “I doubt that’s any cause for alarm.” His glance fell to her soaked woolen bodice. “Maybe I had to hit bottom before I could look up. Are you all right? Did the branch hurt you?”

  Leila tried not to laugh. Surely, she’d rattled his brains, at the very least. This was a side of the brooding Dunstan Ives she’d never imagined. Perhaps he was not entirely all male arrogance and prickly thorns.

  She wriggled experimentally, and his sinewy arm shot out to wrap around her waist and hold her still. Heat and strength poured into her, and she eyed him with some measure of awe. “My, you’re a brawny one,” she said teasingly.

  “Is that rain, or are we lying under a waterfall?” He squinted skyward again. “I suppose in a countryside where red ravens swoop from the trees, one could have waterfalls from the sky.”

  She laughed aloud at that. Minutes ago, she’d been feeling miserably sorry for herself, but all that had changed with a bolt of lightning. Hope filled her fickle heart with joy, even if she was lying on top of a madman in a muddy lane during a torrential downpour.

  “I think the water is now seeping through the crack and soaking your brain. Come, you must get up.” She attempted to slide off, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “Why?” he asked with perfect sincerity. “I am already soaked. I’ve ruined my best breeches. And I believe my horse has run off without me.” He crooked his neck to look around her and verify the lane’s emptiness, then returned to scrutinizing her breasts. “If I must live at the bottom of a barrel from henceforth, the view from here is much better than any I’ve seen for a while.”

  She had so many plans she wanted to talk about, so many things she needed to accomplish, so many hopes pinned to this impossible man—and his only interest was in her bosom!

  She grabbed his long, aristocratic nose and twisted. “Let me go, oaf. I thank you for breaking my fall, but I’m not a water nymph. I want dry clothes and a roaring fire.”

  He removed her hand with ease and proceeded to nibble on h
er fingers. “Tart. Excellent dirt. I don’t suppose you have a roaring fire nearby? Lady Leila won’t exactly welcome me in this condition.”

  Leila’s eyes flared wide. The daft devil didn’t recognize her! He’d definitely cracked his brainpan. Was this how he behaved with all women other than herself?

  But then, most men behaved more honestly with women of the lower orders, and that is how she must appear at the moment. He’d never seen her without powder or wearing anything less than the finest silks. How interesting that dressing in old gowns to play in the dirt liberated not only her but also the man in her company.

  Mischief lurked within her, and she couldn’t resist testing the theory. “I know a place where we can start a fire,” she said brightly, without the studied purr she would have used in London. “It’s just around the bend.”

  His expression was skeptical. “You’re not saying that just so I’ll release you, are you? I’m perfectly content to lie here until the moon comes out.”

  “And be run over by the next carriage? Up, my drowning sailor. I want a fire.” She might be intrigued by the tantalizing effect of man and arousal and pure healthy sex, but she’d never succumbed before and saw no reason to do so now. Pleasure was short-lived, but her garden was for a lifetime.

  She tugged her hand away and swung her leg over his broad torso the way a man dismounts a horse. She’d always wanted to ride astride, but this hadn’t been her idea of a mount.

  He grimaced when he was hit by the full brunt of the rain without her warmth to shield him. “I think I’ve broken every bone in my body. I don’t suppose you would be inclined to help me up?”

  She propped her hands on her hips and glared down at him with suspicion. “I don’t suppose I would. I’d end up rolling in the mud again, wouldn’t I?”

  A smile of sleepy satisfaction spread across his normally taciturn face. “You’re much too clever for a girl. Even my brothers fall for that one.” With a grunt, he rolled to one side and heaved himself to a sitting position. This time, his gaze focused on her gardening shoes. “Dainty feet. Does the mud squish between your toes?”

  It did. Her soles had separated from her flat kid boots, and the rain had soaked through. She kicked his solid thigh to pry him up, but he’d already succeeded in sending a thrill through her. Men didn’t admire her toes. Dunstan Ives was too dangerous for her own good.

  Dunstan Ives thought she was a country wench, free for the asking.

  “Up, or I shall leave you here to wallow in the mud,” she declared.

  He staggered up, dripping mud and rivulets of water from hair and clothes as he towered over her. Leila caught her breath at the immensity of the man blocking her view of the landscape. A black ribbon dangled from the remains of a queue at his nape. His sopping brown coat hugged wide shoulders and powerful arms. A muddy, crumpled stock clung to dripping linen and a black vest that molded to his deep chest and narrow waist. He looked perfectly comfortable in the mess, and her heart did a jig. The gentlemen she knew would be bemoaning the destruction of their pretty attire, not looking at her as if she were a piece of tasty pie.

  She wore no powder or perfume, her hair hung in straggling black hanks down a muddied woolen bodice, and she looked worse than she ever had in her entire life—so bad he didn’t even recognize her. And still he stared at her with devouring hunger.

  She definitely liked this man.

  With a swing of her hips, she set off toward the cottage she’d had cleaned and prepared for the estate agent she’d hired—the best agronomist in the kingdom.

  Dunstan’s addled brain seemed to tilt, then right itself once his feet found solid ground.

  Feeling as if he truly must have cracked his brain-case, he trudged down the lane after the woman in red. He’d flirted with the wench. Gad, he couldn’t remember flirting since he’d sired his son on Bessie. He would have to further investigate the effects of blows to the head. Could one pound sense out of heads?

  Rubbing his bruised skull and rounding the bend in the lane, he watched his playful companion walk up to a neat latched gate in a privet hedge. Beyond the gate, the steward’s two-story stone cottage, which he’d moved into earlier, rose against a backdrop of larches and chestnut trees. How did the bedraggled female know to return him here—unless she was a servant he hadn’t met?

  Dunstan didn’t waste much time studying people the way he studied crops and weather, but he had an odd notion that the impertinent bit opening the gate didn’t have an ounce of servitude in her.

  A pity. Given his clash with his last employer, he probably ought to take some lessons—

  A sight down the lane, past the gate, distracted Dunstan’s musing. Otto, his damnable horse, stood calmly cropping the grassy verge ahead.

  Forgetting the woman waiting at the cottage gate, Dunstan strode past her to grab the horse’s halter. Otto shook his shaggy head, splattering him with moisture. Amazed that he’d noticed those few drops in the midst of a downpour, Dunstan glanced up at the sky. The clouds had parted and a rainbow pierced the sky.

  He glanced back at the alluring figure tapping her foot, and something twitched inside him. He knew temptation when he saw it, and knew he must resist it at all costs.

  Leading his horse, he stopped in front of her. Now that he wasn’t blinded by rain, he could see that she had midnight-blue eyes lit with starfire and lush lips that didn’t need the artifices of paint. No more golden-haired, deceitful aristocrats for him. A hearty country wench like this one was just the sort of woman he might one day hope to have at his side, and in his bed.

  To his regret, that day wasn’t today. He couldn’t afford her or any other distraction until he cleared his name in Celia’s death. It would be a long time after that before he could afford a wife, even a country one.

  “I would offer you the warmth of a fire,” he said politely, “but I cannot risk angering the lady of the manor by dallying where I shouldn’t. I’ll bid you good evening, and hope we meet someday under more auspicious circumstances.”

  Leading his horse through the gate, Dunstan turned his back on her surprised expression before she could destroy his illusion of loveliness by unleashing whatever female temper she harbored.

  He was becoming very good at turning his back on temptation.

  Five

  After carefully covering his turnip seeds with damp linen, Dunstan jotted down a few notes in his scientific journal, then glanced out the cottage window to the freshly plowed field caught in the fading rays of the sunset.

  The first pleasure and satisfaction he’d known in a long time rose in him at the sight. His field, earned with the sweat of his own brow, planted with his newly developed seeds—a root crop that with the proper care should grow thrice the size of all others. He’d been here only a week, but the weight of the world was already lifting off his back.

  If all went well, he would have a thick crop of feed vegetables to sell next winter, the newly formed agricultural society would recognize his achievements, and he’d have taken a step toward improving the lot of small farmers everywhere.

  Had he owned the land, his labors would be considered a gentlemanly endeavor to improve it, and he would have aristocratic visitors from across England. As it was, the snobs wouldn’t step past their gates for him, and he would be fortunate to attract the interest of anyone except local tenants. So be it. He didn’t crave recognition so much as a means of earning his living and a modicum of respect.

  Self-respect would suffice, for now. It was hard enough to come by these days.

  The vision of the broken corpse that had once been the bright-eyed, laughing girl he’d married still haunted him. He had a man’s blood on his hands because of her. Guilt and shame and a gnawing horror at his own actions continually tormented him.

  He didn’t know if he had the ability to rebuild a life for himself in the aftermath of Celia’s death, but he had a son to support. The challenge of surviving each day for Griffith’s sake kept him occupied. The search for t
he truth of Celia’s death kept him from wallowing in self-pity. Now that he had an income again, he had funds for the investigator with whom he would meet shortly.

  He glanced at the daily written summons from Lady Leila that his housekeeper had left on his desk, which he continued to ignore. Allowing a seductive Malcolm to bewitch him was a certain road to madness. Better to remember Celia and the tragic results of passion.

  He’d hired gardeners and ordered the ground plowed. What more could the lady ask? Visiting her would accomplish nothing.

  A bright swirl of red dancing between the dirt rows in the sun’s waning light distracted Dunstan from his thoughts. He didn’t need some fool crushing the hills, destroying his seed. Furling his fingers into fists, he pushed away from the high desk, prepared to chase off the trespasser.

  His eye caught the dancing red again as it drew nearer—the woman from the lane following a small black-and-white cat. She was like the moon, appearing at day’s end to tempt a man to folly.

  He wanted her gone—from his thoughts as well as from his sight.

  He returned to leaning against the desk. With his reputation, an angry confrontation with a woman would not be an intelligent move.

  If he was nothing else, he was an intelligent man—except when it came to women. Women infected his brain like green worms infected rotted apples.

  There was something subtly erotic about the way she skipped among his carefully tended furrows, ruby lips flashing a taunting smile, as if she knew he was watching.

  Dunstan turned away from the window.

  He didn’t need luscious lips tempting him to something he had no right to consider. Work must come first these days.

  Retreating from his study to the front parlor, Dunstan grabbed his coat and hat. He strode to the stable, saddled his gelding, mounted, and spurred it into a gallop, leaving the figure in red behind him.

  Fuming over the ability of women to turn him into a churning cauldron of lust, Dunstan rode to the pub where he’d agreed to meet the investigator Drogo had recommended. He’d spent this last year praying that the authorities would uncover Celia’s murderer, but they all seemed satisfied to assume he had killed her.