Angus sighed, and the wild roses shivered in their vase. “A man never notices until it’s too late. Any herbs for caution, or good sense, or warning?”
Georgiana laughed. “We were never cautious or sensible, Angus. Do you remember?”
“Was it a spell?” Angus demanded. If it was, it was on him still. Georgiana shimmered in the light of the candle, and he felt desire smoke through him. He curled his hands against the inability to touch her, felt the old familiar loss of her.
“Of course not. We never danced around a bonfire at Midsummer, or drank wine together.”
“Meadowsweet,” Muira murmured, and they turned to watch her.
“There you are—pure magic. Meadowsweet is for casting love spells,” Georgiana added. She pointed a sheer white finger at a pair of jars on Muira’s left.
Muira turned to look. “Coriander and damiana,” she murmured. “Well, why not?”
“What’s that for?” Angus demanded.
“Desire,” Georgiana sighed.
“For lust,” Muira murmured, as if she’d heard the question too. “Lust never hurt anyone. What’s love without lust?”
“More of that, then,” Angus said, and tipped Muira’s hand himself this time. The pot overturned in the bowl, and the three stood and stared at it.
“No matter,” Muira said blandly, and retrieved the pot, and left the herbs.
“It won’t harm the lasses, will it?” Angus asked.
“Not if they don’t drink the ale,” Georgiana said.
Muira plucked a leaf from a green plant growing in a pot. “Smells like the kitchen, that does,” Angus said.
“ ’Tis basil,” Georgiana said. “For fidelity.”
“His or hers?” Angus demanded.
“For both, forever, undying devotion.” Georgiana sighed.
“Undying indeed,” Angus muttered bitterly, staring at his invisible hand.
They watched Muira mix the herbs. She took small pinches and made up three tiny muslin bundles, muttering a spell as she tied them closed with red thread. She added the rest of the herbs to a jug of ale, and stared into the depths of the golden liquid as she swirled it, muttering an incantation, watching the herbs absorb the wine, and sink. She set the pitcher on the shelf and turned to fetch another bowl.
“Now what?” Angus asked. He watched Muira take down a jar of poppy.
“ ’Tis a sleeping draught,” Georgiana said.
“Och, I recall nights when I couldn’t sleep for thinking of—” He shut his mouth before admitting that once he lost Georgiana, sleep became his enemy, because his dreams were filled with her. Every time he woke without her made it worse, until he didn’t want to sleep at all. He roamed the castle at night, took long cold baths in the loch, and still couldn’t forget.
Georgiana obviously understood well enough. She smiled softly at him, her head tilted, and he might have blushed if he’d been able. Suddenly he wished for his grandson all the magic, the passion, the life he himself had missed out on. He rubbed a hand over the ache in his chest.
“I think the sleeping draught is for Devorguilla,” Georgiana said. “So the girls can go out tomorrow night. Now all is in readiness, I think.”
“Will it work?” Angus asked. “Will it bring Caroline and Alec together?”
Georgiana sighed, and the shutters rattled, making Muira look up, squinting at the shadows. “I hope it will—but Muira has no idea that the potion is for them. She made it for the girls, a love charm, and for the lads and lasses who will dance around the fire tomorrow night.”
Angus shook his head. “They’re all lost, aren’t they? Those fine braw lads who have their freedom, and their whole life ahead of them. They’ll wake up in a woman’s arms after the bonfire has died and wonder what on earth happened to their good sense. Heaven help a man when women start meddling with his life.”
“Love spells don’t work on those who have no desire, or need. True love has its own magic and it cannot be created or destroyed where it does not belong. You can’t blame love on herbs or the season, Angus.”
“Oh, can’t I?” he grumbled.
