One Touch of Magic (3 page)

Mr. Benson laughed ruefully. “Aye. His old lordship wasn’t much concerned with the farm, that’s true. But he was a good man, and took care of his tenants and workers.”

“What workers he had,” Miles murmured. Louder, he said, “The buildings are all in excellent repair, and it looks to be a good harvest this year. I fear I do not know much more about farming than my uncle did—I have been in the Army since I was eighteen, and that was seventeen years ago. Perhaps you could assist me, Mr. Benson?”

“I would be happy to help you in any way I can, my lord.”

“Excellent. Then tomorrow morning, we can ride over the rest of the estate, and in the afternoon take a look at the accounts.”

“There’s not much more of the estate left to see,” Mr. Benson said. “Just the northwest section, but Lady Iverson is there.”

Miles frowned as he pictured in his mind the map of the estate. “The northwest section? Is that not where the river cuts into the estate?”

“Aye, but it’s more a stream than a river. That’s where it is deepest.”

Miles might not be much of a farmer yet, but he
did
know that river—or stream—valleys often yielded the richest land, ripe for cultivation. That was a large tract of land there, enough for two farms of a middling size at least. “Lady Iverson? She does not sound like a tenant.”

Mr. Benson laughed. “Oh, no, indeed, my lord! Lady Iverson and her husband, Sir John, have been digging up an old Viking village there. Sir John passed away last year, but she still works on it. They were friends of your uncle, and he let them stay there. I believe the attorney spoke of talking to you about the situation soon.”

It sounded like a whopping waste of good land to Miles, some spoiled Society lady digging about in the dirt where crops could be growing. “A Viking village?”

“Oh, yes, my lord. My brother sometimes works there, hauling away rubbish and the like.”

“I see,” Miles said slowly. “Do many people work there?”

“A few, though not as many as used to.” Mr. Benson glanced around a bit nervously. “They say there’s a curse on the place.”

Miles almost laughed aloud. He had the sense that the tale of Lady Iverson and her Viking village was going to prove quite amusing. Perhaps that was why his uncle had let her stay on the land—for the sheer diversion of it. “A curse?”

“There’s said to be treasure there, but if anyone touches it they will die horribly. They say the treasure was cursed by a Viking witch named Thora, and she doesn’t want anyone messing about with it. Things have happened there—a cave-in, some objects smashed. People don’t much want to work there, for fear they’ll accidentally disturb the treasure.”

“What about you, Mr. Benson? Do you go to the village?”

Mr. Benson shrugged. “My job is to look after the estate. The village is Lady Iverson’s business.”

“I see.” Miles decided he would just have to have a thorough look through his uncle’s papers, and see if this lady and her husband had some sort of contract on that land. “And what does she intend to do with the village once it is dug up?”

“My brother says she is writing a book.”

“Is that so? I should like to meet Lady Iverson soon.”

“You may get to meet her sooner than you would think, my lord. That’s her now.”

Mr. Benson pointed with his riding crop down to the road below them. It was not much of a road, more of a pathway really, that wound around the edge of the estate until it joined the main road into the village of Upper Hawton. In the distance, stirring up a small dust cloud, was a bright yellow phaeton drawn by a pair of matched grays.

As it came closer, Miles saw that it was indeed a lady driving it, going at a rather improvident speed that sent the elegant equipage jolting over the ruts in the road. She wore a purple carriage dress, and a tall-crowned black hat trimmed with jaunty purple plumes. Glossy dark brown curls peeked from under that hat, and Miles had a glimpse of a pale oval of a face as she drove past. She raised one black-gloved hand to wave at Mr. Benson as she went by, then she was gone, her carriage jolting on its way down the road. A snatch of some song she was singing floated back to them on the breeze.

She was far more dashing than Miles would have expected a lady scholar to be. He found himself very curious to meet her.

But he could hardly just gallop up to a lady, and stop her carriage without an introduction. She might think he was some sort of highwayman! She appeared to be heading into Upper Hawton, though. Surely there was some errand he needed to accomplish in the village? Some purchase to be made?

And surely there was someone there who could properly introduce him to Lady Iverson.

Sarah sang a merry little tune as she drove along, basking in the sunshine. It was truly a lovely day, with a cloudless blue sky and the hint of autumn in the air. She felt better than she had since Phoebe left last week. The work on the village was progressing most satisfactorily; she even had two new workers, a brother and sister from one of the tenant’s families, who seemed to have no fear of any curses. And she was on her way to meet her sister Mary Ann. Not even her odd dreams could disturb her this day.

Best of all, she had not heard from the new Lord Ransome, or his attorney. She knew he was in residence at Ransome Hall, had heard of him from all her friends and workers. They said he was very handsome, if a bit weather-beaten from his years on the Peninsula, and quite charming. She confessed herself curious to catch a glimpse of him—but not curious enough to face his questions about her residency on his land. Not yet, anyway, not when the work was going so well.

She knew she would have to face him sooner or later, and persuade him to let her stay. She just hoped it was later, perhaps even so late that the work was complete and she could leave.

As she turned a bend in the road, she saw that Mr. Benson, the bailiff, sat atop a hill with another man. Ordinarily, she would have stopped the phaeton and had a little chat with Mr. Benson, for he was a most pleasant man, and she wanted to ask how his wife was doing after the birth of their new baby. But she had a suspicion that the other man was Lord Ransome, so she just drove past.

She turned her head, trying to get a glimpse of him as she drove. All she had was an impression of thick blond hair, uncovered and ruffled by the breeze, of a military posture in the saddle. His head also turned to watch her progress, and she had to resist the urge to stop and try to get a better look at him.

But stopping would mean speaking, and she was already late meeting her sister in Upper Hawton. Her mother’s friend, Lady Hammond, who was dropping Mary Ann off on her journey to London, would not wait in the village for very long, and it would never do to leave Mary Ann alone there. She drove down the road, until the men were left far behind her.

Unfortunately, fate seemed to be against her. Attempting to cross a shallow stream, something she had done dozens of times before, she felt a great jolt, and her phaeton tilted and would go no farther. Her horses tossed their pretty heads, as if indignant that their jolly run had been so rudely interrupted, and tried to move forward. The carriage was quite thoroughly stuck.

Sarah twisted about to look down at the offending wheel. It was obviously caught in some muddy rut of the streambed, and she would have to walk to the nearest farm for help. She glanced down at the water, frowning.

She had dressed so carefully today to meet her sister, leaving behind the stout boots she used for digging in favor of dainty new kid half-boots. She certainly did not want to ruin them! Perhaps she could climb over the front of the phaeton onto one of the horses’ backs? But then how would she release the horse from the carriage without getting muddy?

She sat there for a moment, absorbed in this conundrum, until she heard the rustle of hooves on the road behind her. She turned, full of relief, to call out for rescue—only to find that it was the man who was perhaps Lord Ransome approaching.

A half-smile curved his lips as he reined in his horse next to her carriage. He
was
handsome, Sarah thought, just as everyone said, and not the least weather-beaten. He was rather sun browned, to be sure, the darkness of his skin in contrast with his guinea-gold hair. His eyes were a brilliant blue, surrounded by only the faintest of lines that deepened when he smiled at her fully.

They sparkled in the sunlight, blue as the sky, making him seem very friendly and easy. Not at all the stiff-backed prig she imagined an Army man would be. And he seemed very—familiar.

She smiled back, caught by his handomeness, his smile. She didn’t think she could speak even if she tried, she was so breathless. And he hadn’t even said anything to her yet! He had just smiled at her, and she was staring like a silly schoolgirl.

Stop it right now,
she told herself sternly.
You are not some young miss; you are a respectable widow, and he is the one who holds your work in his hand.

If he thought she was a simpering lackwit, he would never let her stay at the village.

She twined the reins around her fist, and sat up straight on the carriage seat. “Good day, sir,” she said, deeply grateful that her voice emerged in a normal fashion, and not as a high-pitched squeak.

“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.”