Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(38)
The thrill of desire shot straight through her, until Dare ambled off to wash, and she remembered the false bottle of Fowler’s she’d put into his dressing table earlier.
Please, let it ease the wrongness that was causing him such pain, or she’d start doubting her gift as well as her medicines.
Chapter 12
Wishing he hadn’t been so tightfisted as to reject taking the comfortable berlin into Harrogate, Dare tried not to topple from the farm wagon in exhaustion at the end of the day. He found it difficult to believe he’d built the foundation of his wealth by haggling with horse traders and had once loved the challenge.
Still, he was confident he’d purchased two respectable nags and their tack today. He had also accomplished a more interesting objective—he’d learned the direction of the elusive Mr. Crenshaw.
While the farmer who’d allowed him to accompany him into town urged his spindly nags around a sheep flock, Dare took a swallow of the Fowler’s solution. With luck, it would give him enough energy to prevent him from crawling in among the boxes in the wagon and falling asleep. The farmer beside him looked at him askance but refrained from commenting.
“Know anything of a Frederick Crenshaw over Hadenton way?” Dare asked, turning to check on the string of animals tied to the wagon bed.
The farmer shoved his cap up to scratch his scalp. “Reckon I heard of him. Don’t know him.”
The banker had said Crenshaw was a respectable gentleman with an estate. Thieves weren’t gentlemen in Dare’s book.
Once the wagon reached the house, Dare let Ashford’s driver and groom handle the new horses while he loped inside, eager for a glimpse of his bride. He didn’t know why just the sight of Emilia lifted his spirits, but she was more refreshing than any tonic water.
He nearly stumbled over an ornate carpet in the narrow foyer. He stopped his hasty entrance to examine his surroundings. A hall table had been set up near the door with a dish for calling cards and a bouquet of roses. He peered into the once-filthy salon that had been stacked with trunks yesterday. The ancient furniture now glowed with polish, and another carpet graced the newly-waxed floor. The filth-covered paintings had been removed, but he saw no light squares where they’d hung, so he assumed the farmhouse-plain walls had been washed as well. Miracles happened!
He had a suspicion that Mrs. Wiggs was the miracle worker though. Maybe he should have married her. Dare grinned, imagining Emilia’s reaction if he said that. He’d have to try it.
A mob-capped maid hurried to meet him. She bobbed a curtsy and stared at the floor. “Shall I take your hat, m’lord?”
Too astonished to do anything else, Dare handed over the old tweed cap he’d worn to blend in. “Where is my lady, do you know?” It was late, so he assumed she would be dressing for dinner.
He was about to take the stairs to look for her when the maid replied, “She just went out to her workshop, I believe, m’lord.”
Drat. Since when did Emilia have a workshop? The growing shed, did she mean? Determined to tell his bride about his day, Dare loped through the house and out the back door. He was tired and hungry but he had to admit to curiosity about what his intrepid wife did with her time.
A shriek from the crumbling glass house sent him running. Emilia barely spoke much less shrieked. Removing his pistol from his pocket, Dare tore open the rickety door prepared to shoot at wolves or thieves.
He discovered his wife standing on a barrel and pointing at a twitching mouse on the floor.
In disgust, rather than waste shot, he lifted his boot, prepared to put the creature out of whatever misery it was in, until Emilia shrieked again. “No, don’t kill it!”
He stared at her in incredulity. “Shall I find a nice house for it? Feed it mincemeat?”
“I apologize for scaring you,” she said stiffly, looking for a way down from her awkward position.
Dare caught her waist and hauled her off the barrel. She felt so good, he held her there, burying his nose in her lavender-scented tresses and enjoying the press of her breasts against his waistcoat. “Why can’t I put it out of its misery?”
She pressed a hasty peck on his whiskery cheek—at least she was learning to express affection, however meager.
“Come, look.” She stepped back, took his hand, and led him to a table that was no more than planks on sawhorses covered by table linen. She pointed at a low pottery saucer.
“Nice saucer?” he asked in confusion.
Her exasperated glance warned he’d answered wrong. Dare studied the table. Puddles of water had pooled on it, but that was to be expected given the holes in the glass roof. Cockroaches floated upside-down in one puddle. Something hairy and equally dead floated in the saucer. He curled his lip in disgust. “You need better facilities.”
“That,” she pointed at the bug-infested puddles and spoke with horror, “is not water. It’s your medicine.”
He was usually not slow on comprehension, but for the life of him, he couldn’t work out how his medicine could be out here killing bugs. Killing bugs. He stuck his finger in the puddle and sniffed it.
She slapped his hand before he could bring it to his mouth and taste it. “There is something very wrong with your medicine. I felt it. And now I’ve proven it.”
She felt his medicine was wrong? One did not feel medicine, except by sticking a finger in it, and that didn’t prove anything. Perhaps he was the one who lacked understanding.