Page 19 of No One's Bride
“Miss MacTavish, on the scale of embarrassing scenarios, nothing could compare to the awkwardness of this situation. You’re standing in nothing but a cotton nightgown. I’ve seen more of you tonight than some married men see in a lifetime.” And he was damned angry with himself because he’d like to see more. “Tell me what the mystic said.”
The lady might have covered her breasts again but Sebastian still held her upper arms.
When he released her, she hugged herself, preventing him from peering at the thin material.
“She said I would marry a man who put me under an ancient spell. That’s why I decided to bid on the grimoire. I thought it better to own it myself than let it loose amongst the fools in theton.”
He failed to see the problem. A man couldn’t use a love spell to make a woman marry him. Could he? His thoughts turned to Michael, a sensible fellow who had taken to reading nonsense.
“Is that why you made the wager not to marry?” Did she know her passion for collecting rare books would outweigh anything she might feel for a man? “To protect yourself from falling under a spell?”
By their very nature, incantations were meant to render a person powerless. No wager or attempt to make oneself unappealing could negate that.
“In part,” she confessed.
“I see.” Was he any different? Had he not overruled her bid because he suspected Michael had died due to his obsession with magic? That he feared she might befall a similar fate?
Damnation! He was rarely so irrational.
Needing to prove the words in the grimoire amounted to nothing but twaddle, he reached for the book and unfastened the tarnished clasps.
“What are ye doing?” Miss MacTavish looked horrified.
“Proving a theory.”
“Leave it in the casket.”
The book fell open at the love spell, and he managed to recite the first three words before the lady charged forward and slapped her hand over his mouth.
“Dinnae repeat them unless ye want to marry me.” Her fingers were soft and warm against his lips. “One shouldnae mock what one doesnae understand. Ye cannae risk breaking yer oath.”
Snatching the tome from his grasp, she fastened the clasps with haste, buried the grimoire beneath a bed of straw in the box and slammed the wooden lid on top.
“Now...” Miss MacTavish fought to catch her breath. “Let us stop this nonsense and deal with our pressing problem.”
Sebastian cleared his throat and pasted his usual stony-faced expression. “I lost the auction. The problem is yours to solve.”
He was rather glad when she raised her chin in defiance. The sooner they returned to normality, the better.
“Then take yer smelly coat and leave. I didnae ask ye to come barging into the house and take control.”
A knot of guilt twisted in his gut. “I meantyouneed to take the matter up with Mr Murden. The bill of sale is with you, not me.”
“I understand. Ye dinnae want to help a lady in distress.”
Sebastian frowned.
Miss MacTavish leaned closer, the nightgown gaping open at the neck, permitting him an eyeful of smooth alabaster skin. “Dinnae stop shouting,” she whispered as if spies were recording their every word. “We must keep scolding each other. ’Tis the only way to banish the spell. Heaven forbid we get caught in its clutches.”
He might have called her a loon.
He might have called a servant to escort her back to bed because if anyone else heard her ramblings they would consider her deranged.
But the need to feed the beast inside encouraged him to say, “Perhaps you should tell me what you find distasteful about my character.”
She nodded, but the flicker of excitement in her eyes died. “In the confusion, I find it hard to think of anything. Och! Do ye see what I mean? Already it has me in its powerful grip.”
On the slight chance there might be some truth to her claim, and not wanting Miss MacTavish to fawn over him like the desperate debutantes he encountered daily, he said, “Then let me help you. Last week, you called me the devil’s spawn because I said there’s something quite disturbing about a man in a kilt.”
