One Touch of Magic (12 page)

If she could only sleep . . .

It was undeniably the Viking village. The same stream ran alongside it; the same smoky-green hillsides rose above, enclosing it in its snug little valley. But it was not the same as Sarah knew it—not at all.

Buildings, new and fresh, stood around her, their walls of wood and some sort of plaster surrounding the narrow walkways. Doorways were open in the shops, displaying wares of beautiful soapstone bowls, strings of amber beads, silver-chased brooches, and carved chess sets. The metallic “clang” of the smith’s hammer rang out amid the laughter and talk of people gathered outside in the bright, warm sunlight. Chickens and geese waddled along the muddy street, and a black-spotted dog raced by, chased by a pack of children.

The street was crowded, humming with life and vitality. Sarah seemed to be right in the midst of it, surrounded by it, yet everyone passed her as if she was not even there. As if she
were
invisible. But she heard and saw everything they did; she smelled the warm, summery scents of animals and spices and fireplace smoke. The people spoke some strange language, but she understood every word.

It was her village! Her village, as it had been when it was first built, so very long ago. Even though Sarah knew that this had to be a dream, she felt excited and exhilarated. If only she could remember every, every detail, and write it all down when she woke up.

She knew, though, that dreams never worked like that. It would all be forgotten in the morning; only hazy, floating little bits still clinging to her mind for a while before they, too, drifted away. All she could do was enjoy it now.

She turned in a wide circle to take the whole scene in, to absorb all the little images of it. Laughing at the joy of being there, she swung wider and wider—until she stumbled to a halt, brought up short by a vision.

There was a glimmer of movement in a polished bronze mirror hanging outside the jeweler’s shop. A spinning woman. Herself Sarah, she thought, until she peered closer.

It was
not
her. Not really. This woman had dark hair, like hers, but it spilled to her waist in a thick riot, not like Sarah’s own shoulder-length curls. She wore a tight-sleeved white tunic, not unlike the nightdress Sarah had put on before she fell asleep, covered by a dark blue, apronlike overdress. The straps of it were fastened by two beautifully worked silver brooches.

The same silver brooches that now lay, carefully labeled, in the stable with the other artifacts. But now they were shining and whole.

Sarah stepped closer to the mirror, reached up to touch one of the brooches. The reflected figure’s hand reached up, too.

“Who am I supposed to be?” she whispered. “What is happening here?”

A movement to her left in the mirror caught her attention, and she turned around. A man stood behind her on the street, tall and handsome, clad in leather leggings and a green tunic edged in white embroidery. A wealth of golden hair fell over his shoulders.

“Miles!” she gasped. That, even more than the whole village, convinced her that this must be a dream. She would
never
in real life call Lord Ransome by his given name! She hadn’t even known that she knew what it was.

Yet it was undoubtedly him, despite the long hair and the strange clothes. He stepped toward her, his eyes as blue and intense as the summer sky above them.

“There you are,” he said, reaching out to clasp her arms in his hands. They felt warm and secure, more solid than any dream she had ever had before. “I have been looking for you.”

“You have?” she asked, completely bewildered. “But I only saw you a few hours ago. We were playing whist on your terrace.”

He frowned, a tiny crease appearing between his eyes. “What is this ‘whist’ you speak of?”

“Miles, you know what whist is! A card game,” Sarah argued. She knew it was futile to try to talk sense to a dream-figure, but she couldn’t help it. It was so strange, so deeply disconcerting to be here with someone who was, yet so obviously
wasn’t
, Lord Ransome.

Lord Ransome, of course, would never look at her as this dream-Miles was doing, with affection and a deep sensual understanding.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with a deep, stirring laugh. “You are playing one of your tricks, Thora.”

“Thora!”
Sarah cried. “I am not Thora. I am Sarah, Miles. Sarah.”

“You may call yourself whatever name you choose.” Miles drew her closer, so close she could feel his warmth through his tunic, could smell his clean pine scent. His mouth dipped toward hers, closer and closer.

By heavens, he was going to kiss her! Sarah found herself longing for that dream-kiss more than she ever had for anything before in her life. To feel his lips on hers, the press of them, the heat and sweetness . . .

“Thora,” he whispered.

“I am Sarah,” she answered, still aching for that kiss, yet desperate to hear her own name in his voice. Not some Viking witch with a treasure and a curse, but
her
. “Sarah. Say it, Miles. I am Sarah.”

Then she felt herself slipping back to consciousness, felt the pull of the real world on her senses. “No!” she cried. “Not yet!” She tried to cling to Miles, but her hands grasped only air. The village shifted and vanished around her, and she fell back and back. . . .

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up. Oh, please, wake up.”

Sarah jerked awake with a start, and slowly opened her eyes. She was in her own bedchamber at the hunting box, in her own bed. The blankets were twisted around her, and she felt uncomfortably hot.

Mary Ann knelt beside the bed, her expression worried as she looked down at Sarah. Her one candle cast a faint circle of light on her, making her look like a concerned and very young Madonna.

Sarah pushed herself up against the pillows, trying to take deep breaths and slow her racing heart. “What is it, Mary Ann?”

“You were calling out in your sleep, and I heard you from my room. I was so worried; I didn’t know what could be wrong! I came in here, and you were saying, ‘I am Sarah,’ over and over.”

Sarah took her sister’s hand, glad of her solid presence beside her. “I was just having a very odd dream, dear. That is all. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I could not sleep anyway.” Mary Ann sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for talking to Mr. Hamilton in the garden. I
do
know better, and I should never have stopped there.”

Sarah tried to shake off the remnants of her dream. She slid higher against the pillows, and rubbed at her eyes. “No, Mary Ann, it was not your fault. It was mine for leaving you alone. I was feeling tired, and in some desperate need of fresh air, and it made me careless of my duty.”

“No. I am not a child anymore; I can be left alone at a crowded party for a few minutes. Or at least, I usually can. It won’t happen again, Sarah, I promise.”

“I hope not. I was just thinking, before I went to sleep, that perhaps it would be better for you to go home.”

Mary Ann looked utterly horrified. “Oh, Sarah, please, no! I like it here so much more than at home. Mother keeps bothering me about my Season; about how I have to make up for your ‘disappointing match’ and marry a viscount at least. And Kitty is still such a baby, I cannot talk to her at all. I want to stay here and learn more about your work.”

Sarah weakened under her sister’s pleading. She had never been truly serious about sending Mary Ann home, anyway. “Of course, I do not want you to go away. It is very lonely here without you, and I can certainly use your help. But you must promise me you will be careful from now on.”

“I will. I promise.” Mary Ann laid her head down on the pillow next to Sarah’s, and said wistfully, “Mr. Hamilton is not as I imagined him, is he?”

“Mr. Hamilton is a very intelligent and learned man,” Sarah answered carefully. “He and John were good friends. I think perhaps his marriage is not—not all he hoped for, but I am sure he will be his old self very soon. Tomorrow, I will talk with him.”

“Not about me?” Mary Ann said, her tone aghast. “How awful to be
talked
about. It’s like something Mother would do.”

Sarah laughed. “I must, dear. It is my duty as your older sister. But I also want to see if he will tell me what has been amiss with him.”

“Well, if you must, you must,” Mary Ann said with a sigh. Then she gave Sarah a mischievous little smile. “Lord Ransome seems like a very nice man.”

“Yes,” Sarah said, keeping her tone neutral. “He does seem a nice man.” She was not sure that “nice” was exactly the correct word, especially after the dream she had just had, but it would do.

“And Ransome Hall is a pretty house. I can see a person being very comfortable in its rooms. And since Mrs. Browning prefers Bath to the country, a lady would never have to worry about her mother-in-law interfering there.” Mary Ann’s voice was determined, but growing sleepy. She yawned through her next words. “Very comfortable—and happy.” Her head drooped on the pillow.

Sarah slid back down onto her pillow, and closed her eyes. Sleep would not come back, though, and she lay there for a long time, listening to Mary Ann’s soft breath and thinking. Always thinking.

Ransome Hall
was
a pretty place, and she could envision herself happy there. Happy with Lord Ransome, maybe. She could see herself sitting at the foot of the table at supper parties, and looking down to see him at the head, smiling at her. She could see herself dancing with him in the ballroom there, walking with him along the garden paths, working on her writing in the library while he went over estate business.

She liked Lord Ransome—far too much. She was attracted to his golden looks, his smile, and laugh. She missed the companionship of being married. She especially missed it on long, dark nights like this. If she were sensible, she would chase after the attractive Lord Ransome and secure him as soon as she could, as no doubt her mother would have advised her to do.

Yet, deep in her heart, even in lonely moments, Sarah knew she could never again be completely happy without her work. It fulfilled a deep yearning within her to learn, to
know,
as nothing else, not even love, could ever do. And Lord Ransome did not seem the sort of man who would understand that, or be able to share in it.

No matter how many strange, alluring dreams she might have about him.

“It was a splendid supper, was it not?” Miles’s mother said. She leaned back in the settee before the library fire, sipping at a last cup of tea before retiring.

Miles relaxed in his own chair, a glass of port in his hand. “Yes, indeed. All thanks to you, Mother.”

She laughed. “Not at all. It is
your
house, and the guests were your neighbors. I merely lent some of my social expertise to the arrangements. As I will be glad to do again—until the happy day when your wife becomes hostess here.”

“I fear that day may be a long while away. What lady would have a sunburnt officer like me?”

“Oh, any single lady you wanted, I would imagine. You are a marquis now, remember, my darling, and a wealthy one. A handsome man, too—and that is not just my maternal prejudice! Any woman would count herself fortunate to have you.” She took a sip from her cup, her glance speculative over its china rim. “Lady Iverson is a very interesting lady. I wish I could have had more converse with her. But perhaps she will still be in the neighborhood when next I visit.”

“She is very interesting indeed,” Miles murmured, thinking of how she had looked over the card game, beautiful and intent.

“Unusual,” his mother continued. “And, one might say, very pretty.”

Some hopeful tone in her voice caught his attention away from memories of the evening past. He looked over at her. “Are you trying to dabble in matchmaking, Mother?”

She smiled mysteriously. “Of course not! I have never been very successful at that sort of thing. But you
will
have to marry, you know. Lady Iverson, or someone like her, would be far preferable to some silly young miss I could find for you in Bath.” She placed her cup back on the tray, and stood up to come and kiss Miles on the cheek. “Well, I am tired, darling. Shall we breakfast together tomorrow, before I depart?”

“Of course. Good night, Mother.”

“Good night, Miles. Do not sit up too late thinking.”

Miles listened to her soft slipper-steps fade, and the library door click behind her. He did not want to “sit up thinking”; social events were far more exhausting than campaigning had ever been. Yet how could he help it? His mother was right about Lady Iverson—she
was
interesting, and pretty, and so much more besides. He found himself wanting to spend more time with her, to know more about her, to know everything. What her childhood had been like, what drew her to her work, if she had truly loved her husband—if she still loved him.

But he had the distinct sense that she did not feel the same way about him. She watched him with caution, and a certain reserve. Except when she had shown him the Viking village. Then her eyes lit up, her entire being became animated and glowing.

He dreaded the discussion he would have to have with her, and soon. He dreaded it more than any battle or skirmish he had ever faced.

“So, are we understood, Mr. Hamilton?” Sarah looked across the tea table in her tiny drawing room at Mr. Hamilton. He smiled at her, calmly, politely, as if completely unruffled by anything she had said.

Sarah, though, had shaking hands and a dry mouth. She did so hate quarrels and confrontations—they were such a waste of time, when she could be out in the sunny day, digging. But she had to do her duty as a sister and a chaperone, and so she had summoned Mr. Hamilton and talked to him about what had happened in the Ransome garden.