Free Must Be Magic by Patricia Rice Page A

pierced an unguarded chink in his armor.
    Dunstan didn’t have the words or the time or the patience to talk to elegant ladies, particularly ones smelling of roses and jasmine. “Maybe. If you’ll stay out of my way.”
    â€œYou’re a big fraud, you know.” Not moving away, she tilted her head so he could see the smile forming on her lips.
    Startled at being told something similar for the second time in twenty-four hours, Dunstan dropped her elbow and glared at her. She was but a shallow flirt, and he should take no notice of her foolishness. But a small voice in the back of his head warned that she was also a Malcolm. What was she trying to tell him?
    At his thunderous silence, her smile widened. “Beneath that prickly exterior of yours is a man who cares.”
    Fool woman! Having expected something much more momentous, Dunstan growled, “Not about roses,” and stomped away, trying hard not to hear her laughter.
    Locating the first heavy stone available, he hefted it to his shoulder and heaved it in the direction of the wall. Hard physical labor had helped ease his sexual frustration these past years. He would probably kill himself if the damned Malcolm insisted on polishing her temptress talents on him.
    ***
    In the shade of evening, after donning her old gardening gown and slipping away from her guests, Leila examined the results of Dunstan’s efforts. The wall was almost high enough to keep out the sheep, and the roses had been pruned back to tiny shoots of green. Her heart leaped wild and free with excitement.
    Letting her cat scamper after a field mouse, she stooped to test the quality of the soil as she’d seen Dunstan do, and didn’t realize she had company until a lengthy shadow fell across the furrow.
    The scent of smoke and cards and an underlying tension told her who it was before she glanced up. Henry Wickham. He’d appeared with the other guests earlier, apparently apprised by her nephew that her sisters were on their way. She didn’t remember him as being so nervous when he’d courted her in London, but he wasn’t much older than herself and probably new to the activity. Annoyed that he’d caught her with her guard down, she remained kneeling.
    â€œYou have some interest in fields?” she inquired dryly, knowing he seldom left the city. Wickham wasn’t a large man, but the kind of languid, lace-and-beribboned gentleman who spent far too much time at card tables and too little outdoors.
    â€œOnly in what grows in them, if you are any example,” he replied suggestively.
    Leila narrowed her eyes. In the fading daylight, he stood over her, swaying slightly. She wouldn’t call his words the polite flattery he usually bestowed on her. He’d no doubt spent too much time imbibing liquid courage after dinner.
    She bit back the insult that leaped to her tongue and started to rise.
    Wickham caught her elbow and dragged her upward. “Come here, and let me have a better look. I have a shiny coin for you, if you suit.”
    Leila gaped at the insult. The light must be poor, or he was too besotted to recognize her voice or see anything but her unbound, unpowdered hair and rough clothes. She had dressed casually in hopes of catching Dunstan here, not some drunken rake.
    She ought to be afraid, but mischief won out. “And I have a shiny knife for you, if you don’t let go,” she warned in her best tavern wench manner.
    â€œNow that’s no way to speak to a gentleman. I know the lady of the manor. I could have you turned off this land, if I so desired.” He tugged with more force than such a slender man should possess, hurting her arm and upsetting her balance. “It’s much more pleasant to accept my coins.”
    Despite their similar heights, he was stronger, and Leila staggered, catching herself by slamming her free hand against the lace of his cravat. Even though she lacked her usual high heels and