Whisper of Magic Read Online Free PDF Page A

his features. He had long-lashed dark
eyes beneath slashing dark eyebrows, eyes that studied her with the same interest
as she studied him. Blatantly, she let her gaze drop to his very masculine nose
with a bit of a crook in it, his supple lips, and his dimpled chin. She adored dimpled
chins, even worn on a visage frosty with determination. Still, she did not
speak.
    “I know you do not understand this country,” he said.
    That he had not obeyed her command immobilized her with
confusion. Men always obeyed her voice. Despite her pleasure at his looks, her
loss of control of the situation made it difficult to comprehend his words.
    “You have no cause to sympathize with the problems facing my
family,” she heard him say, “but perhaps you are familiar with the fight to
free the slaves in places such as your home? What I have to say affects that
fight as well.”
    Had he just addressed her deepest fear—right here in public?
Was he a mind reader? Celeste nearly stumbled in shock.
    He reached to catch her before she fell, but she was quick
on her feet and righted herself, still in an appalled daze.
    Could he really be speaking about the anti-slavery bill that
might stop her uncle’s predations? And what would this stranger have to do with
her late father?

Three
    Erran had never been reduced to begging, especially from
beautiful women. But he was too caught up in the urgency of this opportunity to
recognize any loss of dignity. Obtaining his brother’s town house was the most
important goal in his rotten life right now. If he must implore servants to
gain access to the tenant, he would bow down on bended knee.
    Besides, it was no hardship to study this mystery woman who
did not scream assault when attacked or retreat to hysterics when confronted.
He had his suspicion that she was no simple servant. From what he could see
beneath her concealing hood, she had long-lashed eyes, lush lips, and a
complexion as rich as her accent—all of which spoke of foreign aristocratic
refinement.
    Somehow, he had to breach the lady’s rather formidable
defenses to resolve the problem at hand. An armed, seven-foot tall Nubian was a
rather daunting obstacle—although perhaps not so much as the lady’s refusal to
speak.
    At her nod of dismissal, her bodyguard stepped around Erran
to open the door of the tailor shop. The lady hastened inside, and the servant
closed the door, blocking Erran from following. Servants did not have servants.
    Erran studied his adversary. “You saw what happened back
there. You know the lady has enemies.”
    Garbed in the formal, if old-fashioned, attire of a
gentleman, the towering African remained stoic, staring over Erran’s head.
    “I can find out who would want to harm her and why, but only
if I know for certain that she is who I believe she is. It would be rather
futile to search for her enemies if she’s someone else.” He didn’t even know if
the other man spoke English, but he had to assume he did since the lady had
addressed him that way.
    No response. Erran contemplated testing his Courtroom Voice
on the irritating Colossus, but temptation was addictive and dangerous, not to
mention illogically superstitious, and he refused to give in to it. If that
meant demeaning himself before a footman or butler, so be it. It wasn’t as if
an Ives existed who stood on formality.
    “I’m Lord Erran Ives, brother to the Marquess of Ashford,”
he said stiffly. “My family owns the house in which you’re living. If the lady
is not safe there, we can arrange better, safer accommodations.”
    He noted a flicker of interest. Before he could find a more
persuasive argument, the lady returned, empty-handed. If she really was a lady,
why would she be running menial errands to tailor shops? And yesterday, she had
been doing so without the accompaniment of any servant.
    Determined to solve the puzzle, Erran refused to be pushed
aside. He fell in step with them as they returned the way they’d come.