Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Yes,” Hawk said between his teeth. “To get me married.”

“Lucky girl,” Grunyon said in a dry voice. He added, seeing the frustrated fury mingled with deep concern for the marquess in his master’s green eyes, “His lordship is tougher than old Sergeant Hodges. He’ll survive, my lord, you’ll see.”

“Old Sergeant Hodges died in his bed. I heard about it from Lord Saint Leven just last month.”

A poor choice of examples, Grunyon thought, picturing the crusty one-legged old soldier who would follow Major Hawk to hell and beyond. Died in his bed. It wasn’t to be thought of.

Grunyon sighed deeply. He sincerely doubted that life would be pleasant in the near future.

Frances Kilbracken stood at the northwestern edge of Loch Lomond, staring out over the calm, clear water. A cloud drifted across the sun, and the March air chilled suddenly. She wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, knotting it over her breasts. It was absolutely silent. Since the trees were still naked-branched from winter, there were no leaves to rustle. The birds were even muted today. Instead of the peace that usually filled her when she came here alone, away from her family, away from everyone, she felt as if her nerves were disordered, a condition her younger sister, Viola, indulged in quite often. When Frances would tell her to stop being a silly ninny, Viola would turn her languid eyes on her and say in a voice that brooked no argument, “But, Frances, I read that all ladies, real ladies that is, are highly sensitive.”

Frances smiled and closed her eyes, finally hearing the soft lapping of the water against the craggy rocks near her feet. Slowly she sat down, wrapping her wool skirt about her legs, and hugged her arms about her knees. She stared toward the tall, rugged peaks of Ben Lomond and Ben Vorlich. Just beyond her, in the narrow upper reaches of the loch, she could picture the wild torrents, the rough crags, and the thick pine woods. A true Highland glen, she thought, untamed, uncivilized, and her favorite place in the whole world. She wouldn’t leave here. Never. She felt a frisson of dread as she played again in her mind the incredible scene with her father just an hour before. One of her sisters would have to leave. She didn’t want to think about it, but she couldn’t help herself.

Frances, her older sister, Clare, and seventeen-year-old Viola were seated in the sparse and severe drawing room. Their father strode into the room, flanked by Sophia, their stepmother, and Adelaide, the daughter’s governess and companion, now the unofficial tutor of little Alexander, the earl’s only son.

Alexander Kilbracken, Earl of Ruthven, a handsome man, a formidable man, tall, barrel-chested, still possessed of a full head of auburn hair, paused before his array of daughters, looking at each of them in an assessing way.

“Papa, what is this?” Viola asked, fidgeting on the edge of her chair. “Kenard is to visit and I must see to my toilette.”

“I think,” Frances said, studying her father’s face, noting the barely suppressed excitement in his gray eyes, eyes the same color as hers, “that we are about to see enacted a Family Drama.”

A smile played about Ruthven’s mouth at his daughter’s tart voice and words. “Have you nothing to add, Clare?” he asked his eldest daughter, his voice bland.

“No, Papa,” Clare said in her calm, well-modulated voice. “I will lose the morning light, however.”

“You can dabble with your painting anytime,” Sophia said, her voice a bit sharp.

Clare shrugged and fell silent. Frances was right, Clare thought, mildly interested. Something was going on.

Ruthven walked with his light step to the fireplace and leaned his shoulders against the mantelpiece. “I have three very lovely daughters,” he announced. “You, my dear Clare, are all of twenty-one now, ready to be a wife and a mother. Despite your occasional lapses into the artistic realm, and your vagueness, you’re a good soul.” At this double-edged compliment, Clare started, staring at her father, but his attention was now fastened on Viola. “And you, child, are but seventeen, but a woman grown, nonetheless. You are bright, vivacious, vain, probably too pretty for your own good, and spoiled.”

“Papa!”

“Aye, ‘tis true, lass, and you know it. However, you too would make a passable wife, if your husband took the time to beat the foolishness out of you.”

“I’m ready,” Frances said, grinning and crossing her hands over her breast in a martyr’s pose. “Bring out your finest artillery, Papa.”

‘You, Frances Regina,“ Ruthven said, unperturbed,”are a handful. Willful, too independent, a mouth that won’t be silenced, and a damned excellent animal healer. You would be sorely missed by our people were you selected.“ He didn’t add that he would be the one who would miss her the most; he didn’t have to. She knew it.

“Selected for what?” asked Viola. “Papa, please! Kenard will be here shortly, and I must—”

“Marriage,” Ruthven said, interrupting Viola. “One of you is shortly to be wed.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then a volley of exclamations.

“Whatever do you mean, Father?” Clare said, her voice at attention.

“Oh dear, what have I to wear?” Viola wailed, quickly reviewing her wardrobe.

“This is an altogether ridiculous display of drama!” Frances said, cutting to the core.

“The man who will make his selection is an English nobleman, the Earl of Rothermere, to be exact. He will arrive shortly.”

There was another moment of shocked silence; then Frances said, laughing, “What a plummer, Papa! What would a proud Sassenach have to do with us? Come, I wish to go riding. Finish your jest and be done with us.”

“Frances,” Ruthven said with awful calm, “shut your mouth. Now, all of you will listen carefully. You all saw the servant that visited us, did you not?”

“I liked his livery,” Clare said, lapsing into her artistic musings. “The gold and red—most impressive. I should like to paint him. His features were most interesting.”