Bewitched by His Kiss

England, 1804

Lucasta Barnes knows the folly believing in magic can lead to—and she won’t accept that her illicit tryst with a notorious rake was the result of anything more than pure lust. Or that it has bonded them together forever. Yet, she can’t deny that she yearns for just one more night in his arms...

David, Earl of Elderwood, is used to women being enchanted by him, but ever since a passionate encounter with Lucasta three years ago, he desires only her. How can he convince his thoroughly practical paramour that love is the greatest magic of all?

Book two of the May Day Mischief duet.

Bewitched by His Kiss

Barbara Monajem

Contents

Bewitched by His Kiss

Copyright

Warwickshire, 1804

Lucasta Barnes crept down the side staircase at Whistleby Priory just before dawn on the first of May. Since her cousin Peony Whistleby insisted on rolling naked in the dew, Lucasta had no choice but to follow and ensure that she returned home safely.

She’s young and in good health, Lucasta reminded herself. This is May, not December. And although Peony was foolish, she wasn’t a madwoman. Still, Peony’s belief in fairy magic, combined with the chill darkness of the morning, reminded Lucasta horribly of a Sussex night well over three years ago, when her grieving mother had crept out alone. She’d refused to accept that her husband was dead, believing instead that the fairies had stolen him. They’d found her the next morning, weeping on the rainy Downs, and she’d died of an inflammation of the lungs a few days later.

That won’t happen to Peony, Lucasta told herself firmly. She took the last stairs in a hurry and sneaked into the gunroom, where she retrieved her little muff pistol from one of the drawers in the big old cabinet. Mr. Whistleby had confiscated it when she’d first come to stay at the Priory, saying he didn’t hold with women handling guns. She found some powder and shot, and a few minutes later, the loaded gun in the pocket of her cloak, she hurried through the orchard toward the wood.

If only she hadn’t mentioned the idiotic ritual to Peony in the first place! To Lucasta, rolling in the dew was merely another subject in her folklore research, but it was just the sort of thing to catch her cousin’s romantic fancy. It wouldn’t magically call Peony’s true love to her side, but if some wayward male should dare to accost her naked cousin, Lucasta wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.

She was out of breath by the time she rounded the eastern edge of the wood. Somewhere along there, a path led to the so-called Enchanted Meadow. The lightening of the sky, along with the morning clamor of birds, meant that dawn had arrived, so hopefully Peony was already getting the rolling over with.

Lucasta wished it were lighter, because paths into the wood were notoriously hard to find even in daylight. Peony, of course, attributed this to the magical character of the wood; according to her, people who weren’t supposed to reach the meadow, didn’t. However, Lucasta had made her way through the wood on numerous occasions by applying logic and perseverance, which were much more reliable—and safer—than magic. She eyed the darkness between two massive old oaks, certain the path was—

Out of the twilight a horse and rider loomed.

Damn! Intent on finding the way to the meadow, she hadn’t noticed their approach, and now they were almost upon her. Judging by his hat and greatcoat, the substantial male figure astride a dark horse wasn’t one of Mr. Whistleby’s keepers, looking out for poachers.

Whoever he was, he shouldn’t be here. Lucasta gripped the pistol in her pocket and strode forward, intending to tell him so.

* * *

“Miss Barnes,” said David, the Earl of Elderwood. “Better hurry, hadn’t you? Dawn is upon us and the moment is nigh.”

She froze. He couldn’t see her clearly in the gloaming, but sensed the distress and anger surging within her like a swarm of wasps. He had expected the anger, but the distress woke an answering unease within him. God knew he didn’t want to upset her, but she’d refused more customary methods of communication, such as civil conversation. Now there was no other way.

“What the devil are you doing here?” she snarled.

“Surely Alexis told you of our impending visit,” he said in his softest, most nonchalant voice. His close friend Sir Alexis Court was Lucasta’s betrothed. They’d been engaged now for close to three years. They were likely to tie the knot sometime soon.

Whenever David considered the possibility that Lucasta might actually marry Alexis, he found himself possessed of a murderous rage. David liked Alexis. He didn’t want to harm him, much less kill him, and besides, Alexis deserved better. Or rather, different. Lucasta was a single-minded, unyielding shrew. She would destroy Alexis, a decent fellow if ever there was one.

David, on the other hand, was notoriously indecent. Not only that, he wanted Lucasta. No, more than that—Lucasta belonged to him, whether she liked it or not. She was his.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he drawled. “The pathway’s not between those two trees this morning, but to the left of them. Get your clothes off, and I’ll be right there to claim you.”

He didn’t need more light to see her glare. She didn’t deign to answer his quip, but as long as the memory of May Day morning three years ago was besieging her, so far, so good.

The few conversations he’d had with Lucasta during the intervening years had served no purpose whatsoever, either as inducements or threats. Therefore, he’d asked Alexis to arrange a visit to Whistleby Priory, although they were not supposed to arrive until that afternoon. Ostensibly, David wished to learn firsthand about folklore connected with the estate. That would no doubt prove interesting, but his true purpose for this visit was to make sure once and for all that the proposed marriage never took place.

“How foolish of me to assume you would arrive at the front door like a civilized Englishman,” Lucasta said. “Where, pray tell, is Alexis?”

David waved a hand vaguely in the direction from which he’d come. “Somewhere over there, humoring me by pretending to look for a way into the wood. Such an obliging fellow, you know. He’ll make the perfect henpecked husband.”

“Alexis won’t need henpecking,” she retorted “because he’s a reasonable human being, not a lecherous lunatic.”

“How encouraging to know that you still think of me, darling,” David said, vaulting off the horse and advancing toward her. “Not that you can help yourself, since the bond between us is eternal and unbreakable.”

“Rubbish,” she said. “Rubbish that I think about you, and rubbish that anything exists between you and me but a tawdry, faded memory.”

One of the wonderful things about Lucasta Barnes was that she refused to back down. If she would turn and run like any sensible woman, or at least back fearfully away, she might be able to avoid him. Instead, she made getting close to her all too easy.

“Tawdry?” David said, bearing down on her. “Yes, delightfully so. Your luscious, milky-white thighs parting. Your glistening folds opening to me.”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she drew in a breath. “You are disgusting.” Her voice trembled ever so little.

That was all the encouragement he needed. He backed her up against one of those massive oaks she’d been peering between, trying to find a path she wasn’t meant to follow. Tardily, she tried to sidestep him, but he hemmed her in with his arms and pressed her bodily against the tree.

“Faded, is it? I can mend that,” he said, and kissed her.

* * *

She barely had time to get her hands on his chest before he crushed her between his large, powerful body and the tree. She spread her hands and pushed hard, but he didn’t budge, and meanwhile his mouth claimed hers with a familiar ferocity that she’d dreamed about and tried to forget for three long years.

As for his words, oh,God, the mention of her parted thighs had sent fire straight to her privates, and she was wet and ready and no doubt glistening, damn him, just as he’d described.

She melted under his kiss with a groan of pleasure and pure rage. Why couldn’t she resist him? It couldn’t be because he was a rake. She’d never before met a rake who appealed to her in the least.

She’d spent almost three years thrusting the Earl of Elderwood out of her mind. She’d arranged a false engagement with Sir Alexis Court to stave him off. Now she sank into the taste of him, dizzied by his heady male aroma, overwhelmed by his size and power and heat. Desire rampaged through her, stirring her flesh to flagrant, wanton need.

And he knew it, his hot hands traveling her, dominating her with ease, one hand cupping her breast, teasing the nipple through the fabric, while the other raised her skirts.

The rush of cold air sobered her, gave her strength. She tore her mouth from his and pushed again, but he merely laughed and bit her ear.

Oh, God. Desire stormed her defenses again, and now his clever mouth feathered kisses down her throat and nipped the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. The scratch of his day-old beard sent quivers through her limbs. He tormented her with kisses and bites and kisses again, and all the while his hands explored and uncovered and made her insane with wanting him.

This wasn’t magic, as he claimed. It wasn’t a result of their frantic, naked coupling in the dew three years ago. Lord Elderwood had asked—no, demanded to marry her then and several times since, when she’d accompanied Aunt Edna and Peony to London for the Season. He claimed there was an unbreakable bond between them. Sheer nonsense! It was nothing but animal attraction and could be overcome by willpower.

She had plenty of that, but to get away, she must disarm him. She must, but instead she found herself running her lips over his rough cheeks, nipping his ear in return, burying her nose in his aroma and heat.

The muscles of his shoulders softened, and he leaned into her, the pressure sensual and insistent but no longer fierce. He was sure of her now.

And no longer unstoppable, but she must make him think he had succeeded. She let her hands fall, let her breasts sink against his chest, and at the crushing of their bodies, so close and so hot, she almost succumbed again.

No. She ran one hand up his torso and around to his back, fondling but not really, while the other hand slithered down his hip and into the pocket of her cloak.

She grasped the pistol and pressed the muzzle against his groin.

“Let me go, or I will shoot you,” she said.

* * *

David stilled. Damn, that certainly felt like a gun. His cock cringed in abject terror. The rest of him was merely annoyed. For the sake of that most important part, he released her. “What in Hades is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want this.” She backed away. “Can you not get that into your thick head?”

“Come now. You were enjoying it as much as I was.” He moved toward her.

Lucasta cocked the pistol and leveled it. “I mean it. If you so much as touch me again, I will shoot.”

He considered her. She had more resolution than several other women combined, but if it came down to it, would she shoot him? And if she shot, what were the odds she would hit him?

He shrugged. At this range, she would be hard put to miss. For all he knew, the gun wasn’t even loaded, but he decided not to chance it. “Very well,” he said. “If you’re absolutely sure you weren’t enjoying yourself...”

She didn’t lower the pistol as any ordinary woman would do at this juncture. “I’ll thank you to remember that I’m engaged to your close friend.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he said. “As I’ve told you before, you’re making a mistake. Why ruin poor Alexis’s life?”

The insult didn’t faze her; she waved his words aside with the cocked pistol and an impatient frown. “You needn’t be concerned for Alexis. I mean him no harm.”

“You may not mean it, but you’ll do it anyway. Uncock the pistol, woman. It could go off at any second.”

“No,” she said, striding away.

“No what?” He followed. “It won’t go off? It’s not loaded, is it?”

“Of course it’s loaded.” Her voice overflowed with scorn.

“Dear me. For whom was the bullet intended—originally, that is?”

Lucasta huffed.

“Do you usually come out at dawn, half-dressed and carrying a loaded pistol?”

She kept going.

“You’re not wearing stays,” he said. “You’re wearing nothing at all under that gown. To me, that indicates you intended taking it off.”

“Or that I dressed in a hurry,” she snapped, “without the help of a maid.” She whirled, waving the damned gun. “Get on your horse and go away. Come back at a civilized hour.”

“Very well, you dressed in a hurry,” David said. “I’m willing to believe that. But why? If you didn’t intend to roll in the meadow, why would you rush out here at dawn?”

* * *

He was impossible to deal with.

She lost her wits with the Earl of Elderwood. She said the wrong things, she behaved like a ninny, and much as she would like to retreat in a hurry to the safety of the house, she didn’t dare. What if Peony hadn’t finished rolling in the dew? Knowing Lord Elderwood and his absurd fascination with folk magic—he was far worse than Peony—he was here to visit the Enchanted Meadow at dawn.

She couldn’t let him see Peony. She had to keep him away until all danger of such a catastrophe was past.

“Obviously it was for another reason entirely,” she said, stalling while she tried to think of one. “You know I don’t believe that nonsense about rolling in the dew.”

It was light enough now that she saw the annoyance cross his face. How could a grown man, in this day and time, believe in such a fool’s ritual?

Oh, she admitted her own stupidity in the whole affair. Three years ago, when still living in Sussex under the care of her paternal uncle, John Barnes, she’d heard the housemaids teasing one another about rolling naked in the dew the next morning, which was May Day. Knowing it was useless to order them not to—the hold of superstition was far too great—she resigned herself to protecting them instead. The next day, she’d woken before dawn, dressed in a rush and hurried to the meadow most likely to be used for such folly.

No maids came, and nor did their swains. She’d been about to return to the house when a swarm of wasps, followed by Lord Elderwood, had disturbed her vigil—and her entire life.

Afterward, Lucasta learned that her uncle, too, had risen before dawn and prevented the maids from leaving the house, on the grounds that it would take them away from their chores, which was both untrue and unfair. Much as she hated superstition, she loathed her uncle more. He was a mean-tempered, clutch-fisted taskmaster. Until the age of twenty-five, she would be under his thumb, granted the most meager of allowances until she gained control of her inheritance. Since it was her fortune from which the allowance came, it should make no difference to him whether she spent a little more or less, but instead he kept reinvesting her earnings, assuring her that in the end she would thank him.

Now that it was near the end and her capital that much more, she was grudgingly thankful, but not because of his supposed foresight. He could never have predicted that she would need every penny to move far, far away and start a new life where no one could find her, particularly the Earl of Elderwood.

She glanced away from the wood and the meadow, frantic for inspiration, and then at the two massive oaks behind her. “I’m here to look for proof of a Beltane rite.”

“A Beltane rite.” His tone was laced with both suspicion and...interest. Perfect. She’d caught him.

Still, he might not be distracted for long. Clutching the pistol in one hand and gesturing with the other, she led him away from the wood. “According to one of the local tales, the location shifts somewhat, but if, on May morning, one follows a direct line starting with the two largest oaks on the eastern side of the wood, and crosses the brook and walks up the rise, one can see directly through to the meadow as the sun comes over the crest. Needless to say I don’t believe this—that wood is far too thick—but the only way to prove it for the purposes of my research is to go up there.” She hurried down the hill and waded into the brook, holding the pistol well above her head. It would never do to let the powder get wet. “You do know about my research, don’t you?”

“Alexis may have mentioned something,” Elderwood said, his tone now so bland that it was almost worse than open derision.

“I’m compiling a vast collection of folklore,” she said. “I intend to publish it.”

“Good for you,” he said, as if she were a child who had sewn her first crooked sampler. What a pity she couldn’t shoot him right now. Through a haze of fury, she heard him drawl on. “And what, pray tell, has this to do with Beltane?”

Nothing, of course. She set the fury aside to deal with later. “Only that the spot from which one sees the meadow is where one of the Beltane fires would be lit. The other would be in the meadow itself.”

“But the fires would be lit the night before, not the morning after, so how would one know where to light them?”

“That’s the whole point of it,” she said, struggling up the hill with the wet skirts of her gown slapping against her legs. “If the guesswork is correct and the fires are properly aligned, the fairy mound opens. Supposedly the door is somewhere near that copse at the top of the rise.”

“If you say so.”

He was right to be skeptical, since she was making this up as she went along. Down by the wood, a partridge flew from the underbrush, and Elderwood’s horse gave a startled whinny. Lucasta glanced that way, worried for Peony again.

“Why, I wonder, are you pitching me this gammon?” Lord Elderwood said with a chuckle, and just like that, he plucked the pistol out of her hand.

“Give it back!” she cried.

“The only mounds of the least interest to me are yours,” he said. “And my muff pistol is much more fun than this one.”

She was no longer an innocent and had no difficulty catching his innuendo. Damn him! The problem with suggestive words from Elderwood’s mouth in Elderwood’s silky voice was that they got her going. Got her heart pounding and her breasts tingling and her blood burning with dark, insistent desires. It made no sense at all. She’d never reacted this way to any other man. Even Alexis, who was good-looking and undoubtedly virile, didn’t arouse such feelings within her.

If she approached and tried to retrieve her pistol, Elderwood would assuredly get hold of her, and this time she would have no way of stopping the onslaught. She didn’t think he would force her, but he would make her want it, and she might well give in.

She would give in, and his smile said he knew it.

She stalked to the copse, swept up a fallen branch and stormed at him, swinging at the hand that held her pistol. “You’re not only disgusting, but a thief, as well. Give me my gun!”

He backed away, uncocking the pistol and slipping it into his greatcoat pocket.

She kept on coming, lashing at him with the branch.

He fended her off. “Don’t make me take that away. You might get hurt.”

She slashed him across the face with one furious swipe. Blood welled up on his cheek. He didn’t even flinch, merely grabbing the branch with one swift tug. With a curse, she let go, and he tossed it aside. She glared at him, panting. Her hand stung, but she ignored it, just as he was ignoring the blood dripping down his check.

Idiotically, her heart wrenched at the sight. An absurd wish to tend his wound surged inside her. What was wrong with her? He didn’t deserve any such consideration.

But she shouldn’t have lashed at him in such a way. What if she’d injured his eye? She wasn’t a violent sort of person. She was civilized and self-controlled...except when she wanted to kill him.

She hated to back down, but she had no choice. Please be done, Peony. Please.

He took the pistol by the barrel and held it out. “If you want your gun,” he taunted, “come and get it.”

“And get raped for my pains? No, thank you.” She took to her heels, pelting down the hill, slipping down the last of the slope to land on her derriere, getting mud on her gown and may blossoms in her hair. She scrambled up. He thundered toward her, murderous rage and a trickle of blood on his darkly handsome face.

Again her heart twisted at the sight of what she’d done. That urge to tend to him assailed her. An apology tried to force itself to her lips, but she bit it back. Yes, she’d dealt him an intolerable insult, but it served him right. She plunged across the stream, picked up her dripping skirts, and ran for the safety of the house, almost frightened at what he might do if he caught her first.

He didn’t even follow her. She heard his shout for Alexis and turned, gasping for breath. He didn’t glance toward her, merely wheeled his horse and rode away.

* * *

Rape? Was that how she saw it? She’d fled pell-mell toward the house as if she seriously expected him to pursue her, throw her to the ground and take her against her will.

Furious and ashamed—which was entirely unjust because whatever she claimed, she did want it as much as he—David Elderwood dabbed the blood from his cheek and headed back to meet Alexis. He didn’t want to want Lucasta Barnes. Wanting her was a damned nuisance. He would far prefer to go back to his old carefree life, where he’d taken his pleasure with actresses and opera dancers and rarely considered marriage. His magical blood had meant women fell in love with him left and right, and he’d been more than happy to take full advantage of that!

Until Lucasta came along, and his long-dead mother’s warnings at last made sense.

“You will enjoy it at first,” his mother had told him, and although he’d only been ten years old at the time, he’d had no difficulty believing her. He already liked the look of women. Besides, his mother was always right. Right about the hobs and bogies—no one in the household saw them except her and David—and right that he could see paths where others saw thickets, and knew by instinct where to seek entrance to the fairy mounds. “But it will pall, if there is no love involved,” she’d said. Right again.

Now he bore with the women patiently and tried to be polite, but he couldn’t stomach them for more than a few minutes at a time. Not that he’d been celibate since that incredible coupling with Lucasta three years ago—of course not—but he’d stuck with one woman, an undemanding mistress who appreciated a comfortable income in exchange for satisfying his needs now and then. It was a boring liaison, but he didn’t have the taste for anything else. Lately, he’d had no taste for anything at all.

How could he, when he was bound to Lucasta for better or worse? This captivity was far more constraining than marriage, because it was born of magic and fueled by love and would never, ever fade.

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