Dangerous Magic (18 page)

Gwenyth rested her head against the smooth gray bark of the beech tree. The forest’s stands of ash and beech leafed out in the balmy warmth, while the apple trees and the wild cherries draped themselves in bridal white.

Burhunt Down lay to the east of the house, a meadow set within the New Forest’s thickest wood. A stream wound past the group of picnickers, their blankets spread at its banks. Lady Hillier along with her daughter and Mr. Minstead had been invited to partake of a cold luncheon and enjoy the summerlike weather gracing the south Hampshire countryside.

Gwenyth wandered away from the others. Their cheerful chatter seemed to her a brittle shell, masking darker, more violent emotions. Even Rafe seemed tense and on edge as he sat in company with Sophia, trying hard to ignore Anabel Woodville’s flirtations and Derek’s hostility. Only the Dowager seemed ignorant of the undercurrents raging about her.

Gwenyth tried ignoring the churning mood of the others, but she still couldn’t bend the Sight to her wishes. She swallowed the tremors of panic threatening to weaken her even more. She should never have forced the Sight in such a way. But surely, with rest and no more sessions of such extreme use, she would recover. She must.

She forced her mind to focus on the steady trill of field-crickets and the
bup-bup-bup
of nesting thrushes, and not on the trap closing around her. For fourteen years, she’d kept firm to her solitary lifestyle. Never allowing anyone close enough to do them harm.

Her life’s tapestry had been crisp. Clean. Perfect.

Until Captain Rafe Fleming.

He’d not only woven himself into her life, he’d teased out every thread and created a completely new pattern.

She’d leave here tomorrow if she could. But the dream-child had taken hold. Her face haunted Gwenyth, her laughter echoed through the chilly corridors of Bodliam. She was as real as any of the men and women lounging upon the grass behind her. Gwenyth would fulfill her unspoken promise to this child. With Rafe, she would bring her forth. But at what final cost, she couldn’t say.

Voices penetrated Gwenyth’s agitated thoughts. Cecily and Gerald Minstead strolled past. The two walked side by side, Mr. Minstead chivalrously pushing aside branches and clearing spider webs as they talked—or rather as Mr. Minstead talked. Cecily hung upon Mr. Minstead’s long-winded musings, comparing the rugged, windy moors of his birth with the pastoral downs and meadows of the New Forest.

“…But have you ever visited the Rufus Stone, Miss Fleming?” he asked as he pushed aside a budding hazel bough, hanging low across the path. “It marks the spot where King William II died of an arrow to the breast.”

Cecily’s reply was a breathless murmur. But her eyes gazed up at Mr. Minstead with such a lovelorn expression Gwenyth had no doubt that even had Cecily visited the stone annually she would have denied it simply to have Gerald at her side. They rounded a bend and disappeared into the forest.

“Gwenyth!”

Rafe’s sharp tone snapped her head around. Sophia lay propped in Brampton’s arms. Against the tawny brown of her dress, she looked white as chalk. Perspiration glistened upon her forehead, even as Lady Hillier tried cooling her with the frantic waving of her hat in Sophia’s face.

The Dowager hunted through her bag. “I know I have a vial of hartshorn in here. I always carry it with me for just such emergencies.”

“I’m fine, really,” Sophia explained. “Just a slight backache, and I tried rising too fast. I’ll be better in a moment.”

“It’s not uncommon, madam. I had the same problem with every child I bore,” Lady Hillier offered. “A nice rest in a dark room always helped me. Anabel, be a dear and get Her Ladyship a glass of lemonade from the hamper.”

Anabel made no move to follow her mother’s instruction as Gwenyth hurried across the grass to sink beside Sophia. “Is it the babe?”

Unthinking, she placed a gentle hand upon Sophia’s swollen stomach. Relieved to feel a series of jerky kicks as the baby moved beneath her palm.

Brampton huffed his displeasure. “Miss Killigrew, I would ask that you accord my wife the respect her station deserves.”

Rafe started to answer Brampton’s rudeness but Gwenyth held him silent with a scalding glare.

Instinct and her recent time with Mr. Purkiss had driven her to Sophia’s side. It was her own fault she’d erred and forgotten her place. Heat stained her cheeks, but she was more annoyed with herself for stumbling into such a blunder than with His Lordship’s rude tone.

She started to draw her hand away, but Sophia caught her elbow to hold her close. “My husband’s bark is worse than his bite, Miss Killigrew. He worries over this child. We’ve lost two babes before this, and I get no younger.”

Gwenyth settled back upon her knees. “And who is left to worry over you?”

It was Brampton’s turn to grow red in the face. “How dare you imply that I don’t worry over my wife’s health? Or that this whole family isn’t concerned with Her Ladyship’s well-being.”

Derek stepped in before Brampton could say more. “Relax, Edmund. I’ve heard rumors that Miss Killigrew is more than knowledgeable about such matters.”

When both Gwenyth and Rafe shot him a suspicious glance, he continued, “She could be a comfort for Sophia right now. God knows, who else is there?” His eyes rested upon the Dowager still searching for the hartshorn and Lady Hillier busy fanning.

Sophia struggled up, placing a warning hand on her husband’s arm. “Edmund, could you be a dear and bring me a glass of something cool?”

Brampton seemed to accept Derek and Sophia’s attempt to stave off an argument. He stalked off, casting a black look back at Gwenyth.

Sophia gave a wan smile. “Are all the women of Cornwall so plainspoken in their speech, Miss Killigrew?”

Gwenyth willed her frustration to subside beneath a pose of deference, but she lowered her eyes to keep Sophia from catching the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “It’s a trait the Killigrew women are known for, madam. We suffer few fools.”

Rafe smothered a laugh in his drink as Gwenyth leveled him with an icy look.

Anabel, seated upon a blanket spread nearby, shivered. “The whole idea of childbirth frightens me to death. I’d rather be a man and face a cavalry charge than suffer the pains of giving birth.”

Gwenyth gave Anabel a stern look of reproof. “Such thoughts do little to aid Her Ladyship, I’m thinking. Bringing a child into the world can be a beautiful thing if the babe is wanted and loved. Then the pain is seeming a small price to pay and fades as soon as the child is placed in your arms.”

Sophia smiled her thanks as Brampton handed her a glass of lemonade.

Anabel rose. Shaking out her skirts, she approached them, an eyebrow arched in catty curiosity. “You sound as if you know a great deal about it. Do you have children of your own,
Miss
Killigrew?”

Gwenyth was smarter than to be teased into argument by Anabel Woodville. “I’m not so graced as to be able to own up to a virgin birth, Lady Woodville,” she answered, nothing but innocent amusement in her tone. “But I’m hoping someday soon to know the joy of having someone place a child in my arms.” She flicked a provocative glance at Rafe.

Anabel noted the track of her gaze. Fury lit her green eyes, and Gwenyth felt even through the haze of her damaged Sight the scalding jealousy and desperation sweeping the woman.

“Virgin, my—” Anabel began.

“Ahh, here it is!” the Dowager announced, producing a bottle from her reticule. “I knew I brought it. With my precarious health, I never know when I’ll be taken with a spell of nerves.”

Brampton took it from his mother, but Sophia waved it away before he could so much as unstopper it. She put a hand to the small of her back, pain shadowing her features. “I’m sure it’s just from sitting out here without my pillows. Edmund, would you mind terribly seeing me home? Maybe Lady Hillier is right and all I need is a few hours in a darkened room.”

The Dowager pursed her lips as she took back the unused bottle of hartshorn. “Quite sensible of you, Sophia. I told you before we started out I thought you ran a risk with such an outing, but what do I know? I’ve only borne and raised four children of my own.”

With Brampton’s aid, Sophia got to her feet. “I’m sure I should have listened to your sound advice, Mother,” she replied sweetly, though her eyes gleamed with resentment. “Come, Edmund.”

The Dowager put up a hand. “Surely Brampton shouldn’t suffer for your recklessness. Let him stay and enjoy the outing.”

Lady Hillier waved a beckoning hand in Anabel’s direction. “Anabel can see to Lady Brampton. She’s always such a help to me. I’ve come to quite rely on her companionship now that she’s returned home to live. I’m sure I won’t know what to do with myself if she ever remarries.”

The Dowager straightened, her pale eyes flashing between Anabel and Rafe. Gwenyth could almost see the wheels turning in the old woman’s brain.

In haste the Dowager pooh-poohed Lady Hillier’s offer. “Anabel should remain. It’s so nice having the children all together again after so many years. Cecily will do very well helping Sophia. Cecily!” she shouted. “Cecily! Come here, child!”

“She’s slipped her leash,” Derek said. “Last I saw her she was sneaking into the wood with Mr. Minstead.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” the Dowager snapped.

Derek’s mouth curled into a lazy smile. “I’d no idea I’d been appointed the task of nursemaid.” Before the Dowager could answer, he ducked his head in compliance. “Now that I’ve been made aware of my post, I’ll do what I can before Mr. Minstead lyricizes her into a compromising position.”

Rafe took Gwenyth’s elbow in a firm grip. “We’ll help you search.”

Derek frowned. “I didn’t ask for your help, little brother.”

Rafe’s fingers tightened as a muscle jumped in his jaw. “It’s not you I’m helping. It’s Cecily.”

He pulled Gwenyth onward and entered onto the shaded footpath. It took only a moment for the carpet of moss and leaves beneath her feet to ease the strain of the past hours. Rafe too seemed to relax away from the poisonous atmosphere of the group. At a giant walnut tree, its catkins littering the ground, Rafe turned to the left. Here the path was barely more than a break in the trees.

“Why this way?” Gwenyth asked, ducking beneath a branch.

Rafe looked back over his shoulder. “There’s a cut in the stream bank farther along. It’s used by every courting couple around here. If I were Gerald Minstead and wanted to be alone with a beautiful, young woman, that’s where I’d take her.”

“And if he’s not taken Cecily there?”

Rafe’s eyes met hers with a mischievous glitter. “Then he’s more of a fool than I thought him.”

The stream appeared as a flash of silver to the right as they stepped out of the close-set trees to its banks. Here, fallen branches lay strewn upon the ground and last year’s leaves crunched as they crossed to the cut. A sandy spit of land jutted into the water with a fallen beech tree as a bench. Coming closer, Gwenyth caught her breath. Upon the beech’s dead trunk were carved hundreds of names and initials.

Rafe ran his hands over the memorials to countless trysting couples. “What tales this place could tell.” He spoke in a hushed tone as if the ghosts of these lovers haunted the place still.

Gwenyth watched as Rafe sought out then rubbed his fingers over two pairs of linked initials carved into a hollow between the main trunk and a thick, heavy limb. She didn’t need to see the letters hidden by his strong, long-fingered hand to know what they signified. The ache in her head moved to her heart.

“The desire for Anabel has never lost its power, has it?” she asked, breaking into the quiet.

Rafe lifted his eyes, pulling his hand away from the fallen trunk as if it burned him. “You think I’m mad?”

“She hurt you once.” Her throat felt scratchy and dry. As if to protect herself, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t see that happen again if I could prevent it. You deserve better. You deserve a woman who can answer your love in this life and the next.”

Rafe crossed the distance between them in two ground-eating strides. He captured her hand, clutching it in both of his. Never had Gwenyth been so aware of the power in his tall, rangy frame.

“Are you sure you’re not that woman?” He searched her face, before meeting her gaze.

She tried to look away, but he caught her chin in his hand, refusing to let her.

“You told me once never to tempt you with what I wasn’t prepared to give,” he said with quiet confidence. “I’m prepared now. I want you to look into my eyes long and hard. Tell me what you see.”

His eyes flickered and burned with a dark fire as his face swam out of focus. The Sight, until now lying dormant within her, poured forth. It washed through her body like a cleansing wave. The rush of the stream changed and grew until it sounded like the chiming of fairy bells. All else faded as the swirling pull of his gaze drew her down and down. The shadows lengthened, the bells became a cacophony until darkness swam up and pulled her under.

She stood within a house. Through a doorway, she saw Rafe standing at the mantel, his face turned away from her as he spoke to someone beyond her vision. In a greatcoat and buff breeches stuffed into muddied boots, it looked as if he’d just arrived. He ran a hand through his hair, and Gwenyth caught the glitter of a gold earring.

Deaf to the words being spoken, she could only stand and watch as he turned and bent down upon his haunches, his arms outstretched in greeting. A child appeared at the far end of the room. Racing across the floor upon bare feet, she threw herself into his embrace. Soft, chubby arms encircling his neck. He pressed a kiss upon her cheek as he straightened, before lifting her up onto his shoulders, the two of them dancing in circles beside the snapping fire.

The vision shimmered, colors running together like water streaming down a window. As the scene cleared again into focus, Gwenyth saw herself within the same room. No fire cheered the empty hearth. In widow’s black, she stood alone, looking through a frost-rimed window to the golds and russets of an autumn day. She held a child in her arms, an infant swaddled in heavy blankets to keep off the damp chill. It struggled against her embrace, its face red with crying. As Gwenyth watched, her ghost-self buried her head in the folds of the baby’s blanket as her shoulders shook with heartrending sobs.