Dangerous Magic (14 page)

Honesty, loyalty, strength, a loving and open heart. These were the qualities Rafe sought. Most held them in varying degrees. It was simply a matter of levels, and whether the negative attributes outnumbered the positives. This woman was a prime example. Gwenyth found her to be all Rafe wanted, but held against the good qualities she possessed were those of selfishness and a tendency toward laziness.

Throwing the doors of her mind wide, Gwenyth allowed her gifts more freedom than ever before. Never had she drawn upon the full force of her Sight in such a way. She used it to pry into the consciousness of each woman she observed as if she pried open a clamshell. Not only those actively pursuing Rafe with batted eyes and fluttering fans, but those who remained aloof and distant, and even those who gave no hint they’d ever heard of the long-lost Fleming son. Fighting the dizzying nausea stealing over her, she noted the women she found most acceptable. Rafe would have a wide choice. Surely, he could find someone from the bounty she’d harvested for him.

Retreating back into her own mind turned out to be harder than she thought. So many passions, so many sensations. They all banged at the walls she threw up, demanding entry, trying to force their way past all her barriers. The dam had been breached. Gwenyth frantically reinforced the bonds holding the door closed, that kept back the tidal surge of strangers’ emotions from overwhelming her and crushing her beneath their devastating weight.

Weakened from the struggle, she swayed. The air around her growing stuffy and hot, lights dancing in front of her eyes. The music warred with Honoria’s ongoing drone before fading out completely. Gwenyth put out a hand to stay her fall, but met only the diaphanous sheer of curtains. Her knees buckled.

Just before she created a scene by falling on her face, a firm hand gripped her under the elbow. Another arm circled her back and grasped her waist, holding her up. Her face brushed against the front of his coat where she inhaled the pungent smells of sandalwood and smoke.

“Easy now, Miss Killigrew.” A man’s deep baritone sounded just next to her ear.

Leaning her head back, Gwenyth stared up into eyes of deep blue. The rest of the man’s face swam in and out of focus, but his gaze lit with amusement as a corner of his mouth twisted up in a smile.

“A bit too much sherry?” he asked. “Or do your simple country tastes run to the more common ales?”

His words acted like a slap to her face. She fought the blinding pain in her head as she straightened, throwing off his hand at her waist. Her chin rose in angry defiance. “A bit too much of the elegant manners of the gentry, more like.”

“I could have allowed you to fall upon your beautiful face,” the man replied, obviously delighting in this exchange.

He still held her arm. His fingers bit into her flesh, and she wondered whether he’d allow her to shake free if she tried. She wished she could simply turn her gaze upon him and let whatever happen, happen. But the search had drained her. She dared not try using the Sight again so soon.

“My sister tells me you’re destined for Ranulf. Not only does he return from the grave, he comes dragging an angel back with him.”

Gwenyth opened her mouth to snap a suitable reply when Rafe’s deep voice rang out behind her.

“Derek? Bloody hell, man. Is it really you?”

The man’s eyes flicked away from Gwenyth to settle upon Rafe. His expression freezing like a blast of winter, his grip tightening upon her arm.

“That’s Father Fleming to you.”

Well, it hadn’t exactly been a fist to the jaw, but damn near as uncomfortable.

Rafe felt the rapier edge of Derek’s fury in the scathing bitterness of his words and the cold, flat expression in his eyes as he spoke them. He’d no idea what Derek had said to Gwenyth, but her face was white as parchment, and she seemed dazed or ill.

Rafe frowned, seeing the whitened pressure of Derek’s fingers clutching Gwenyth’s arm. Before Rafe could speak, Derek released her. But the imprint of his grip remained as an angry red splotch upon her skin.

If his brother meant to cause a scene, Rafe would be happy to oblige him. The growing unease weighing him down ached for an outlet. Idleness, it seemed, didn’t suit his nature.

Derek studied him through the quizzing glass suspended around his neck. After a moment he let it fall, his blue eyes arctic. “So the errant mutineer returns from the dead. Hell’s borders not so well guarded, brother?”

Rafe’s fists itched to attack, but he knew just by watching Derek that this was what he wanted. Instead, Rafe allowed the remark to pass over him like wash across a bow, though the bruising upon Gwenyth’s arm licked his own spark of anger into flame.

Derek’s eyes, once glacially cold, flashed, and his hands curled into fists. “Why didn’t you just stay dead?” he hissed in a low voice, all pretense of civility gone.

The weight of those words kicked like a blow to the chest. Of all his family, it had been Derek he’d missed most those long years of exile. But the Derek of his childhood was gone, replaced by this callous, embittered man. If Rafe had ever entertained notions of returning to pick up the pieces of his life without interruption, that dream had just shattered.

“I found the role of ghost no longer suited me. Too many enticing prospects upon this side of the veil.”

He grasped Gwenyth’s hand. For support or to imprint his own mark of possession upon her, he couldn’t say. She swayed against him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Anabel holding court across the room. He added, “Too much unfinished business.”

Derek’s mouth thinned to a line, looking down his nose at their clasped hands. “Then by all means complete your business and indulge in your—” he raked his eyes over Gwenyth, “—pursuits, but don’t expect a welcome from me.”

Rafe leaned in close to his brother, the flame burning within him fanned to a blaze. Only the shredded teachings of his upbringing kept him from taking Derek by the intricate folds of his cravat and wiping the superior look from his face. “I learned long ago to expect nothing from this family, brother. But a word of warning; don’t push me. Captain Lovejoy may have been the first man I knifed in cold blood, but he was by no means the last.”

Rafe took Gwenyth and left Derek standing alone, though his brother’s stare upon his back was a pricking between his shoulder blades.

If Rafe’s past life had taught him anything, it was that no one could be counted on—no one could be trusted.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Gwenyth bumped against him. He looked down upon her sun-blond hair, felt the warmth of her hand still caught in his own. Surprising himself, he amended that last thought.

They stood within an antechamber, Rafe at the window staring out upon the market square. Body stiff. Shoulders braced in radiating fury like heat off sand. His face lay in shadow, only the curve of his cheek falling within the candle’s light. He brought his hands up to brace them upon each side of the window’s frame and sighed. “That was an unmitigated disaster.” He gave a dry laugh as if to shake his black mood. “I thought this homecoming had all been too easy. Leave it to Derek to disabuse me of the notion I was actually missed.”

Still trying to recover from the strain of such a concentrated use of her Sight as well as to calm her own outrage, Gwenyth rubbed her temples. Dizzy, she sank onto a settee, the headache gaining force behind her eyes.

Rafe dropped his hands and turned from the window. “They’ve moved on, Gwenyth. They left me behind years ago. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Your brother’s bitterness runs deeper than you, Rafe. You’re not the cause, only a remembering of things he’d as soon like to forget.” She pulled off her gloves, crushing the satin fabric in her lap. “But that’s still no reason to tear into you like a rabid dog.”

An urge came over her to rise and take him in her arms, to smooth away the taut lines in his face and erase the misery in his eyes. She fought the emotion. She mustn’t forget her resolve to keep Rafe from twisting himself tighter into her life. She mustn’t falter now. Her future and his hung in the balance. To fill the tense silence, she said the first thing that slipped into her mind. “He missed you.”

“I could tell,” Rafe replied with caustic sarcasm. “But what tipped you off? Was it the insults or the threat?”

Gwenyth allowed the shade of a smile to touch her lips. “In fact, it was you who threatened him. But that’s not what I’m meaning. I sensed it—not much, mind. My strength is almost spent—but enough to know that buried beneath the hate lies a kernel of his love for you. He denies it, but it’s there for someone with the power to see.”

Rafe’s hand seemed to hover at his waist as if he sought the reassurance of a sword hilt or a pistol butt. “We may live beneath the same roof for now, but I meant what I said. Love or hate, he’d better stay out of my way.”

It was a reminder of the dangerous side of this man. He may have been born to a life of etiquette and manners, but much had been lost in the intervening years. Beneath Society’s veneer lurked the dark heart of a ruthless predator. He wouldn’t have survived and prospered within the harsh smugglers’ world otherwise.

Gwenyth stumbled to her feet. Dropping the wrinkled, ruined gloves to the floor, she gathered his hand in her own. “If you intend to remain at Bodliam until you find a bride, the best thing to do is wed quickly. Sparking will take your mind from your brother.”

In the candlelight, Rafe’s eyes gleamed dark as sloe. He lifted his free hand to caress her cheek, drawing a finger down the line of her jaw, teasing the column of her throat with his feather-light touch.

She trembled, every sense screaming for more. Closing her eyes on his unreadable gaze, she moved out of arm’s reach. As her body’s response to that simple gesture subsided, coherent thought slowly returned. She opened her eyes, though she kept her gaze trained upon the center of his chest, refusing to again meet his unnerving stare.

Hoping Rafe didn’t see her unease, she assumed her most frivolous tone. “I mean to be settled back in Kerrow by Michaelmas if not sooner, Captain Fleming, so if you’ll take a seat, I’ll tell you what I’ve found. You’ll be wed before you know it, and naught to trouble you but a new bride’s nerves or an old widow’s habits.”

Ignoring Gwenyth’s sound advice, Rafe bowed over the hand of the young woman as he did his best to misunderstand the invitation in her eyes. Though assured of the lady’s qualities, he couldn’t imagine she saw him as anything more than a walking wallet or, by the flirtatious gleam in her gaze, as a sporting tumble. With her sparkling smile and luscious lips perfect for kissing, he gave the latter a passing thought. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Gwenyth being wooed by a dashing blade in a scarlet uniform.

His mind returned to the jeweler’s box in his pocket. Despite his worries over getting Gwenyth alone, he’d found plenty of opportunities and still he’d yet to present her his gift. Had his mother’s condescending comments pierced him deeper than he had thought at the time, or had she only spoken aloud a truth he refused to face?

As he watched, Gwenyth laughed, her face alight with pleasure, and any thought of pursuing the tempting creature before him, drifted away like smoke.

Excusing himself, he retreated from the dance floor and the interested glances cast his way. Dreaming of this day, he’d thought the attention would bring him satisfaction. In reality, it only made him uncomfortable. Anonymity had its benefits and its uses.

He began to cross toward Gwenyth and the handsome army lieutenant when a hand upon his arm drew him up short. Anabel stood beside him, triumph tipping the edge of her lips.

“I’ve caught you fair and square, Ranulf. So now you must pay your penalty and dance with me.”

Her expectant look reminded Rafe of Gwenyth’s warning.
She’s unpredictable
, Gwenyth had cautioned.
She yearns for something she will never find.

Rafe cast his gaze out upon the bevy of women before settling once again upon Gwenyth. He too yearned for something impractical, perhaps impossible. Could it be that Anabel and he were more alike than he knew?

With effort, he shifted his stare back upon Anabel’s upturned face, thoughts of Gwenyth’s jealousy floating through his mind. He shouldn’t. Anabel was trouble. But since when had the threat of trouble ever deterred him? He’d spent years walking the knife edge between caution and risk. Anabel was just one more exciting instance of testing the odds.

“Come,” she urged, “they’re forming a set for La Boulanger, and I detest sitting upon the sides with the dowagers like a sour old mushroom.”

Pushing aside his misgivings, he bowed over her hand. “Was I ever able to deny you anything?” he answered, allowing her to lead him onto the floor.

Anabel looked back over her shoulder with a meaningful smile. “We shall see, won’t we?”

The steps of the dance kept conversation difficult, but Anabel never seemed to notice. Each time they came together she was ready with another question or comment.

“It was terrible of you to never write. We’d thought you died, you know.”

Rafe shrugged, trying to keep the effects of his confrontation with Derek from resurfacing. “I thought it wisest to stay away.” His brother strolled across Rafe’s line of vision. “Even now, I wonder if I should have left well enough alone.”

Anabel’s fingers entwined with his. Her perfume filled his nostrils. He was twenty again and the beautiful woman in his arms loved him. Her eyes met his. In their emerald green depths, he saw every hope he’d ever had for his future and every unfulfilled desire indulged.

“Your family searched for ages to find some trace of where you’d gone.” Her voice was low and almost breathless as if she saw the same thing in his steady gaze.

Gwenyth’s warning faded from his mind, drowned out by the warring emotions of longing and revenge. Hardly subtle in her actions, Anabel made it clear she wanted him. He could have her—he could have the life he’d always pictured. Or he could take what he wanted from Anabel and abandon her as he had been abandoned. She would feel what it meant to be wounded. She would know humiliation and rejection.

“Where have you been all this time?” she asked.

His voice was firm. “A lifetime away from here.”

“Charles was relieved.” When Rafe shot her a dark glance, Anabel hastened to add, “Not at the circumstances, but at the fact that you weren’t here. You were such close friends once. He felt odd having stepped into your shoes, so to speak.”

He dipped his head slightly so only she might hear. “Into my bed would be more accurate.”

Anabel flushed scarlet just as the music stopped. Without thinking, Rafe grabbed her hand and guided her away from the crowds and into the chamber he’d used earlier with Gwenyth. Someone had since come through and put out all the candles. The room lay wrapped in long gray shadows from the tall windows.

Anabel pulled her hand out of his and moved to the closest embrasure, her face and hair glowing with silver light. “The moon’s lovely, and smell the honeyed fragrance of the sycamores on the breeze. Do you remember sneaking out to meet me at the grotto on such a night?”

Rafe crossed to her side, placing his hands upon her shoulders and pulling her back against him. “I was sixteen and just made midshipman. You were fourteen and the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.”

If Anabel had been a cat she would have purred. She spun around, catching his hands in her own. “I’d never had anyone touch me like that before.” Her breasts pressed against him, her hips sliding against his in open invitation. “Or since. I was a fool to let you get away. Can you forgive me?”

He wanted to laugh. Anabel pleading with him for forgiveness. Telling him she had been wrong. That she loved him still. How many times had he fantasized this very scene? A hundred? A thousand? Old desires warred with new suspicions. Would Anabel have been as quick to reconcile had he returned without a fortune? Was it him she craved, or his wealth?

Gwenyth had warned him, but Gwenyth wasn’t here. She was flirting with another. She’d only herself to blame.

He cradled Anabel’s face in his hands. Why the hell shouldn’t he indulge? After all, how often did one’s darkest wishes come true? His voice came thick and ragged. “You’re forgiven.”

Crushing Anabel’s lips against his, he pressed her back against the window’s edge. His hands roamed her body, knowing it would take little encouragement on his part to have her naked and begging beneath him. Already she answered his kiss with her own, urging him onward with a gasping moan for more.

A vision of Gwenyth flashed across his mind, not as she was tonight, but as she looked dancing within the circle of the Bel-fire’s light, her slender body moving in time to the music, her flaxen hair lit by the glow of the blaze. Though he tried to deny it, in his head it was Gwenyth he held. She intruded upon his seduction as if she stood breathing before him.

He forced himself to release Anabel’s mouth, dragging in a shaky breath of air. How had this happened? How had the Witch of Kerrow insinuated herself into his every thought? He shook his head free of the memory. Now was not the time to entertain notions of a future that could never be.

Anabel continued, her lips finding his neck as she dragged his jacket from his shoulders. “Ranulf,” she whispered.

The click of a latch and the sudden spill of light across the floor caught them. “Quick! In here,” came a breathless woman’s voice.

Rafe threw up a hand to shield his eyes as he sought to recognize the intruders. Anabel shrank into the window embrasure, her hand reaching to grasp Rafe’s sleeve.