Joy liked him that way. She could see glimpses of that hidden part of him she'd sensed was there from the moment she looked into his eyes, that hollowness that needed to be filled, that heart untouched, that part of him that needed her, even if he didn't realize it yet. She could feel it every time he held her, every time he loved her.
She'd find some way to make him understand. She'd given him her heart and her body in love. And Joy wouldn't give up on someone she loved, even if that person was a hardheaded English duke.
She sighed, which dried her throat, so she swallowed and winced at its soreness. It burned and was scratchy, and her ears ached. She ignored them, figuring a busy mind would make her forget she wasn't feeling up to her stifles, and checked the soup on the fire and then turned around to look at the turnips on the worktable; they needed to be peeled.
Next to them was a bowl of separated cream waiting to be churned into butter. She decided to save the vegetables until after she churned the butter. Wiping her itchy nose on her sleeve, she moved to the churn, filled it, then stood there plunging the shaft up and down stopping only to wipe her runny nose.
The novelty of the task lasted only a few minutes. Then her arms began to ache and her mind began to wander. Sweat beaded at her temples, but she kept working. Butter couldn't take too long. With her lip between her teeth and determination in her eyes, she plunged the shaft over and over, then checked the reserve, expecting butter. There was none.
She kept churning until the sweat dribbled like rain from her hairline. Churning butter was the most tiring and boring task she'd ever performed. She checked the reserve again, but the cream had hardly thickened. She stretched her sore arms upward, then planted a fist on her hip and contemplated the pale contents of the reserve, frowning.
She could whip up the butter with a wee bit of magic and without all this silly work. Alec wouldn't like that. But then she didn't particularly like doing the job his way. She rubbed her sore arms.
What she needed was some kind of compromise. She stared at the shaft, then looked out the inn window. No Alec. Her eyes twinkled with an interesting idea, and she smiled. Why not do both?
With a twitch of magic, she left the churn to agitate under witch power, doing the work the mortal way with a bit of witch's ease. She watched the shaft agitate. Then, bobbing her head in time to the drumming beat of the churn, she crossed the room to see if the bread had cooled yet.
Humming a Gaelic ditty she felt the warm loaf and decided that the bread was doing just fine, so with a song on her lips she spun around, intending to dance across the room to begin another chore. After all, as the old Scot saying went, there wasn't much guile in a heart that was singing.
Her skirt caught on something and she stopped. Beside the hearth was the stack of books from the barn. She'd had no time to read, having spent every minute with Alec. And what wonderful moments they had been. She smiled, thinking back over the days, the hours, in his arms, remembering his willingness to accept the sweet scent and shower of rose petals as part of their lovemaking.
Joy sneezed. She wiped her nose, cleared her scratchy throat, and stared at the chores still facing her. She frowned. Then, as if drawn by magic, her gaze turned to one of the books:
The Dastardly Duke .
She turned away, willing herself to finish cooking. Willpower was not her forte. She slowly turned back to the book, wondering what happened to that Gypsy girl. A second later the book was in her hand, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes, a smile on her lips. She opened the book: "The raven-tressed beauty cowered against the curtain of his massive bed, her green Gypsy eyes sparkling like fiery jewels. He moved purposefully toward her, holding her in his raw power with a dark look from his devilish black eyes, his riding crop tapping against the black leather of his boot. He could see she wanted to run. She was frightened beyond reason. By God, he wanted her that way!"
Joy exhaled in a whoosh of tight air. "Oh, my goodness." She searched the room with guilty eyes. The soup bubbled innocently on the fire and surely needed stirring. The turnips sat abandoned on the scarred worktable; they still needed peeling. But Joy needed to read that book.
She lifted one hand and, with a stream of sparkles in its wake, twiddled a spoon in the soup pot. A couple of quick spins of her fingers and the spoon stirred the soup on its own, swirling and dipping into the liquid like a dancer on a ballroom floor.
The turnips were next. She intoned a simple command: "Oh, knife so real, cut away the peel on the turnips for our meal!"
She gave a slight grimace. Not the most impressive of spells, but it did the trick. The closest turnip levitated and the small knife followed, swaying into the air where it pared the vegetable in midair, the purple and white turnip peeling dangling downward like a bouncy curl.
Joy sat on a stool, gave her runny nose a good blow, and opened the book again: "The Duke of Dryden stalked closer to the girl on the bed. The closer he came the wider her eyes grew, the more intense her shivering fear. A tambourine jingled in her shaking hand. He smiled rapaciously. 'Twas the smile of the Devil himself. He expected fear, submission. She raised her chin defiantly, her lips as red as summer roses—"
Joy turned the page and exhaled at the same time. She took another deep breath, sneezed into her hankie again, and read on: "He lifted his hand toward her, unaware he still held the crop, so mesmerized was he by the challenge he saw in the verdigris of her eyes. The tempestuousness of the chit! Her eyes darted to the crop and she gasped. He wanted her, and by God, he would have her! Bent on ravishment, he let the crop fall from his hand, and he grasped her up. The tambourine fell to the bed. He pulled her against his huge rock-hard chest, knocking the breath from her rose-sweet lips—"
"Bloody hell!"
Joy slammed the book closed with a bang and jumped up, staring at her husband and his purple neck.
***
"What in the devil are you doing?" His eyes locked on the butter churn; the bloody thing was pumping all by itself. He looked up to see a wooden spoon stir the soup on its own power, and there were bloody turnips—turnips?—floating around the room pursued by a flying knife.
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, then opened them again. He took one look at his wife's guilty face and crossed the room in two long angry strides, grabbing her shoulders. "You promised no more . . . no more . . . ” He waved one hand in the air, searching angrily for the word—that damned word.
"Witchcraft," she whispered.
"That's right! Damnation, woman!" He gave her a little shake—a hell of a lot littler than he would have liked. "You cannot
do
this sort of thing—especially in
London
." He looked into her face. "Don't you understand? Don't you?"
She stared up at him, guilt and fright battling in her eyes. "I'm sorry."
The fright was what did him in. He took three deep breaths, then released her shoulders and turned away, running a hand through his hair and pacing while he tried to think. He had to make her see that she couldn't do this.
They had to go to
London
, snow or no snow, witch or no witch, duke or no duke. What the Prince Prinny wanted, he got. He turned back toward her and stopped cold.
Purple and white blocked his vision. He stepped back. A turnip hovered in the vicinity of his nose. He took another deep breath, seeking patience from somewhere, somewhere nonexistent.
He ducked under the turnip and dodged the bloody knife, then lost the little control he had. "God Almighty, look at this!" He pointed to the butter churn, then the spoon. "Look! This isn't
England
! I'm in a bloody . . . bloody"— he looked out the window while he sought the word he needed—"fairyland!"
Joy said something.
"What?" Alec spun around, fuming.
"Nothing."
"I want to know what you said."
She sighed, which made him want to wring her neck.
Control, he needed control. He straightened up to his full height and crossed his arms, staring down at her. "I'm waiting."
She didn't speak, so he moved a step closer.
"I said fairies don't live inside. They live outside, under the dewy green—Alec, I think you had better sit down. Your face is awfully red."
He held up his hand, a signal she shouldn't touch him at that very moment, and took in deep breaths as he counted.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, staring at the toes of her crinkled leather shoes. She stood there silent, then looked up and searched his face, staring at him as if she could see inside his head. "Are you counting?"
"Yes, dammit!"
"I thought so," she muttered with a sigh, then righted the stool and sat on it, hooking the small heels of her shoes on the rung before resting her chin in her hand. "Let me know when you reach a hundred."
Another turnip drifted past him. "Get . . . rid . . . of . . . the . . . turnips. And! The flying knife
and
the spoon
and
the . . . the—"
"Butter churn," she supplied, moving toward the open corner of the room where she mumbled something and waved her hands around, then stopped suddenly and blew her nose.
A turnip conked him in the back of the head, twice. "Wife!"
"Oops. Sorry." She tucked her hankie away, closed her eyes, and snapped her fingers.
In a flash all was normal, if his life could any longer be called normal. He rubbed the back of his head.
"Did it hurt you?" Searching his face, she moved closer to the narrow stairs.
"No!"
"Oh." She waited a moment, her hand nervously rubbing the newel post, then added in a hopeful tone that did little to assuage his anger. "We could always look on the bright side."
"There is no bright side."
"Aye. There is."
"I cannot wait to hear this bit of Scottish enlightenment."
"It could have been worse."
"Impossible."
"It might have been the knife."
He looked at her upturned face, dumbfounded. He'd married a crackbrain. He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to see anything other than the dire consequences they could face if she did not heed his warning.
She muttered something about jests not working unless one had a sense of humor.
"This is no jest." He stepped toward her, angry and frustrated that she couldn't comprehend the seriousness of their situation.
Her gaze never left his, but something flashed in her expressive eyes and suddenly her chin shot up dramatically.
Alec stopped and stared at her, confused—his usual state of mind since his marriage.
The look she gave him was all defiance.
"What the devil is that look for?"
She raised her chin higher yet, wiggled her nose, and sniffled some nonsense about a Gypsy just before she sneezed twice.
"Bloody hell!" A riding crop was in his hand. He stared at it for an unbelieving moment, then looked up at her, then back at his hand, then back at her.
"Oh, my goodness."
He slowly lifted his hand, the crop lying across his open palm. He looked into her surprised face.
"Explain."
She winced and sniffled.
He took a deep breath and rubbed his free hand over his pounding forehead, then looked up, expecting to find her in tears. Her eyes were moist, and she dabbed at her nose, but it wasn't red from crying. She grabbed her linen hankie and covered her nose just before she loosed a huge sneeze.