Dangerous Magic (20 page)

As she stared long into the infinite black emptiness, she caught the shadow flicker of one dazzling star. Before she could focus her gaze where the flash had been, the glow burned out. But Gwenyth knew she’d seen it. Knew it had been there.

Was this a sign that Herne had heard the whisper of her greatest wish? If so, god of gods, what would his answer be?

Gwenyth startled awake to the opening of her bedchamber door. Her mind bleary and thick with sleep, she forgot where she was for a moment.

“Gram?” she whispered, still half-lost in disquieting dreams.

A voice broke the silence. “Captain Fleming, actually.”

She caught her breath upon an oath as she sat up. The abandoned tapestry slid onto the floor, any magic contained in its weave long since dispersed. She hadn’t been sleeping long; the fire still burned low in the grate, the sky beyond her window showed no paling that presaged dawn. Rafe leaned against the doorjamb, jacket discarded, neckcloth gone. The heavy odor of alcohol clung to him. Even without the use of her Sight she knew instantly he was drunk and he was dangerous.

“I didn’t think you’d come to me tonight,” she caught back the tremble in her voice before adding, “or ever again.”

Rafe closed the door behind him with an audible click and strolled across to her bed. “We have a bargain. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? My seed for your Sight.”

His voice was smooth as silk, but a shiver of dread slithered up her spine. Never had she beheld the violent, unpredictability of the smuggler captain. Naïve, she had assumed that laying aside the profession meant laying aside the deadly temper that made him a legend up and down the north Cornish coast. She saw now she couldn’t have been more wrong.

She gripped the bedclothes. She hated deceiving him in such a way. If only the creation of their child could be a joy shared between them. “That was our bargain. But things have changed, making our agreement seem foolish and pointless.”

“So you wish to void the contract?” His voice remained steady and even, but she sensed the tight rein he held on his fury. “What of the child? You’ve come so far,” he curled his lip in a sneer, “and sunk so low for the sake of this unborn daughter? Can you honestly tell me you’ll give her up?”

Gwenyth met his eyes. They shone in the glow from the fire, a deep smoldering red matching his volatile mood. But she refused to be cowed. “The child begs to be born, but I can’t force you to bring her forth. If you and I can’t reconcile our feelings with what must be, then she’ll be remaining a dream, and I’ll search elsewhere.” The lies were like ashes in her mouth.

“Elsewhere,” he echoed, rubbing a tired hand down his face. “How many men will share your bed before you gain the child you seek? How many ‘bargains’ will you make to keep your precious heart intact?”

His hand ran up the bedclothes, tracing her outline beneath the covers. His gaze challenged her before dropping downward, slowly, seductively. Feeling the heat of his stare, Gwenyth wished there was more between them but a few layers of quilts. Despite his searing anger, she felt an aching need for him. She willed herself to remain completely still. If she moved, it would be to draw him down into the bed beside her.

“I do what I must for both our sakes. Our bargain was meant to keep both our hearts from breaking. I’ve held to my end. I gave you what you needed to move forward in your search for a bride.”

Rafe remained by her bed, though he made no move to come closer. His eyes flicked over her, but the tempered passion was gone. Even more chilling, they were empty of expression, flat as slate and cold as ice.

Noticing the abandoned tapestry at his feet, he bent and picked it up, draping it across her lap. “You once told me the Horned God granted you your heart’s desire. Now I shall whisper mine.”

He placed his hand upon the center black square. Gwenyth half thought his hand might drop into the empty black hole she’d seen earlier. Instead he brushed the black wool and then gripped it, drawing the tapestry up in one clutched fist. “I wish for Anabel Woodville. I’ll take her as my bride as I should have done years ago. I will have the life denied me.”

She stiffened in shock, but fury replaced it almost instantly. “Marry Anabel? Have you taken leave of your senses? She’s naught but trouble!”

Rafe’s control slipped. He dropped the tapestry and swung his hand back as if he might strike her. Instead, he followed through with a crushing blow to the nightstand, sending pitcher, bowl and candlestick to the floor in a smash of broken china. “Then tell me you’ll be my bride! Or tell me to leave!”

Ignoring the broken crockery, he grabbed her arms in a vise-like grip. The bedclothes slid to the floor as he pulled her to him. His face hard with rage and frustration, his lips brutal and hungry. She pushed against his chest, but she may as well have been pushing against a stone wall. As she opened her mouth to protest, he slid his tongue inside, sending traitorous shivers of pure desire through her.

With one knee upon the bed, he backed her against the pillows until there was nowhere she could retreat, no way to stave off the thrilling intoxication of his kisses or the fires stoked by feeling the crushing contours of his chest.

He released her, but only to grasp the headboard, a restraining hand on each side of her, allowing no escape. He left off kissing her mouth to slide his lips down her neck, across her collarbone toward the curve of her breasts, nibbling bites making her gasp with pleasure.

“Order me to leave,” he whispered in a voice thick as cream and husky with longing. “Tell me you don’t want this to go on forever.”

“Rafe, don’t…” was all she could manage.

Years of self-restraint began to crumble beneath an onslaught of the senses as his lips, hands, body and voice all conspired to make her forget the future of loneliness and heartbreak awaiting her if she dared too much. She moaned as Rafe slid aside the collar of her nightgown, lowering his lips to caress her sensitive, swollen breasts.

Lost in his lovemaking, she didn’t at first notice when he paused to raise his head. When she did look up into his eyes, she felt an icy fist grip her heart, and her skin pebbled with gooseflesh.

His gaze remained as stony and hard as before, only this time drunken malice glittered in its dark depths. “Remember me when you’re old and alone, and life and fate has passed you by.”

Without stopping to think, she touched his mind. Fury and despair raged within him, but revenge dominated all.

She felt him recoil at her prying. His teeth bared in an ugly snarl. “Don’t try your carnival tricks on me! If you want an image of the future, I’ll give you one. Picture me with Anabel.”

He pushed himself off the bed, his breathing rapid.

As stunned as if he’d physically struck her, Gwenyth pulled the gaping neck of her nightgown closed and hugged her arms to her chest. Stung by his cruelty and humiliated at how easily she had let herself fall victim to such a hoax, a hot, angry flush burned her cheeks. She answered him in an even tone, her voice revealing none of her whirling emotions. “I’m guessing that’s your choice to make. But know this, you can no more change your past than I can my future. You think possessing Anabel Woodville can exorcise your demons, but she’ll no more erase the pain of your lost years than she’ll change to be the woman you fell in love with as a boy. You chase a dream.”

Rafe stiffened, his eyes as cold and unforgiving as ever. “And you hide from one.”

He spun away and was gone.

Cecily stood just outside Gwenyth’s door, one hand upon the knob, when the sound of smashed glass and a harsh angry male voice startled her into releasing the handle and stepping back. No more voices could be heard from within, but the silence was almost more worrying than the shouts.

Could Gwenyth be in trouble? Derek had assured Cecily he’d do nothing to Gwenyth while she remained as a guest at Bodliam. However, he’d hinted that perhaps Rafe could be the man to mistrust. If Rafe planned on marrying Gwenyth, why would he want to hurt her? But then just how much did she know about her brother, really?

With chin up and shoulders squared as if she faced a jump on the hunting field, she turned the handle and cracked open the door on silent hinges. Rafe knelt upon the bed, Gwenyth pressed against the headboard. The two never heard her, lost as they were in each other. As she watched, Cecily grew hot with embarrassment before she realized what she was doing and started to shut the door again.

Rafe’s voice made her pause, the tone dark and horrible. His words sliced the air like a whip. Anabel Woodville, he said. Anabel Woodville would be his bride.

His footsteps sounded as he approached. Frantic she’d be caught eavesdropping, Cecily fled down the corridor, throwing herself into an empty bedchamber, hiding behind the half-open door as he stalked past.

It wasn’t until he’d rounded the corner and was gone that Cecily’s breathing slowed and she remembered why she’d come in search of Gwenyth. Sophia was feeling unwell. Her backache of this afternoon still plagued her, and now she felt nauseous. Mama had been told, and she in turn had told Cecily. Worried, Cecily had hoped Gwenyth might have some advice or be able to help in some way.

Creeping back down the corridor to Gwenyth’s bedchamber, she saw that Rafe in his haste had left the door ajar. Raising her hand to knock, she heard Gwenyth’s soft voice. Risking a peek, she saw Gwenyth sitting at the edge of her bed, her prayer rug across her lap, her face upturned to the night sky beyond her window.

“Gram,” Gwenyth whispered to the air. “Gram if you’re listening, I beg of you. Help me. Show me the path to choose. I see so much and understand so little.” As Cecily watched, Gwenyth clutched the rug tight to her chest. “Gram.” Her voice broke. “Gram, if I can’t love Rafe, then let me feel nothing instead. This ache in my heart from holding back is nigh to destroying me inside, and I know it’s destroying him. Please, Gram, let me love him or kill his love for me. There can be no peace otherwise.”

Gwenyth sat bleary-eyed at her dressing table. A pale gray light had been stealing across the eastern sky before she fell into a fitful sleep, her mind full of disquieting, confused images: a one-armed gentleman with a dangerous light in his dark eyes, cliffs rising sheer above a boiling, storm-churned sea, and last, Rafe whispering words that caused her heart to constrict with grief as he faded into an endless black void. It was after eleven before she woke, but exhaustion and sorrow still weighted her down, and she moved with the tender actions of an invalid.

As she studied her reflection in the looking-glass, she felt as if a stranger stared back. Bodliam and its riches were fine for some, but pretending to fit in a world far removed from her own chafed at her, like wearing someone else’s boots. Tending to Mr. Purkiss had stirred her to an awareness of this. The child and then Rafe’s behavior last night only firmed her resolve to leave. Too much had been said to salvage this disaster. If there was an answer to her prayer within her dreams, she would unravel it in the sanctuary of her own cottage. Kerrow beckoned like a mother with outstretched arms, and Gwenyth knew she’d find comfort, if not relief, in the resumption of her old life.

A light tap upon the door broke through her thoughts. Nellie entered, her brown eyes troubled. “I’ve come to help you dress,
Mestres.
”

Instead of the normal stream of lively conversation, she hurried toward the wardrobe, throwing open its doors, pulling out a soft white muslin gown and a silver-gray silk shawl. “The iron’s hot,
Mestres.
Shall I prepare these for you?”

Gwenyth opened her mouth to answer, but Nellie forestalled her. “Or perhaps you’d like to choose something else?” Again, instead of waiting on an answer, she rummaged back among the gowns, her thoughts obviously far from her task.

The maid’s nervous anticipation was like the prickling energy before last night’s storm. It charged the air in the room until Gwenyth’s own heart begin to race. Rising, she crossed to Nellie’s side, putting an arm upon the young woman’s shoulder.

Nellie jumped and spun around, startled eyes wide. “Och,
Mestres.
You gave me a fright.”

“Something has you all in a dither this morning. You’re jumpy as a cat in a room full of mice.”

Nellie flushed red as she fiddled and knotted her fingers together in agitation. “It’s Lady Brampton. His Lordship left early this morning for London to retrieve the fancy birthing doctor. She seemed much improved, but she’s taken a turn. His Lordship’s mother says she thinks Lady Brampton’s gone into labor. But she can’t do that. His Lordship’s not due back for a week.”

“Has no one told the child that, then?” Gwenyth teased.

The remark passed over the flustered maid’s head. Truly worried over her mistress, she clutched the gown in one hand, ignoring the wealth of wrinkles growing in the gauzy material.

Calmly, Gwenyth freed Nellie’s hands from the sad wreck of the gown and dropped it on the bed. “The coming of a child waits on no one’s convenience. Has the Dowager called on a surgeon to attend Lady Brampton in the meantime?”

Nellie nodded. “Mr. Fleming is preparing to leave for Carrisbridge to bring Mr. Sinclair.”

Gwenyth breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Rafe shall find him and be back in no time.”

“No, miss,” Nellie answered. “Not Mr. Rafe. It’s Reverend Fleming that’s leaving to get the surgeon. No one’s seen Mr. Rafe since last night. He never came to breakfast, and his bed’s not been slept in.”

A tremor of uncertainty passed through Gwenyth, but she pushed it aside. Rafe was a man grown. She could understand his need to lick his wounds in private. Hadn’t she contemplated just such an escape only moments earlier? And perhaps it would be better if it ended this way. She could slip away unnoticed as the house concentrated on the arriving child. By the time they realized her absence, she’d be well on her way home. No awkward farewells, no embarrassing explanations.

Now that departure seemed imminent, Gwenyth realized, despite her discomfort with Bodliam, she’d grown fond of some of its inhabitants. Sophia’s charm and gentle spirit, Cecily’s lively enthusiasm, Nellie’s cheery innocence. She hoped they’d understand her departure, although once Rafe began his courting of Anabel, they’d know well enough what happened. After all, hadn’t that been the plan from the beginning?

An image of Rafe swam before her eyes, his chiseled features flushed with desire, his muscled body beneath her fingertips demanding a surrender she couldn’t give. She looked away to keep Nellie from seeing the shine of tears in her eyes.

“
Mestres?
” Nellie asked.

“Yes, the white muslin suits me fine,” Gwenyth answered without turning around.

Gwenyth’s valise sat open and half-packed upon the bed. She perched next to it, running the coral necklace between her fingers. Would it be harder to leave it behind or take it with her? Outside, the weather had soured and what had begun as a pleasant day of fleecy clouds and soft breezes had turned by late afternoon to a dark glowering sky and brisk, rain-laden winds.

This hadn’t turned aside her determination to be gone from the house in the next few hours. She’d traveled in worse weather along the cliffs and hills above Kerrow. Besides, in Upper Yewford she’d find someone able to take her as far as Carrisbridge. If not, she’d walk. Now that she’d resolved to make the break, she couldn’t leave fast enough. Once in town, she could catch the mail coach or one of the stages that paused for a change of horses.

As if she’d cut the last thread holding her here, she tossed the necklace down upon the bed. As it landed, it curved into a perfect spiral. Gwenyth’s heart lurched. The mark of the gods. Of passing through Death’s darkness to emerge anew.

Was it an omen? A portent of what may be? She put out a hand as if she might catch the gift back up. Perhaps she would take it with her after all, as a token of remembrance for all that might have been. As a token of a love unlooked for, but found just the same.

A gust of wind sent last autumn’s leaves pattering against her window. A damp draft of air sent a shiver across her shoulders. Her curtains billowed in as her door opened under a flurry of loud knocks. “Gwenyth?”

Gwenyth’s heart leapt into her throat at the sudden interruption. She whipped around, the necklace sliding into a puddle of coral and gold across the coverlet.

Cecily stood within the doorway. Her eyes widened as they fell on the half-packed valise, and she opened her mouth as if she might comment. Instead, she tore her gaze from the bed and refocused on Gwenyth. “Sophia seems worse, and the surgeon isn’t here yet. We’ve sent a messenger to catch Edmund, but who knows when he’ll be back. Could you perhaps look in on her? She says the pain gnaws at her, but nothing happens. Is that normal?”

The necklace was forgotten beneath Cecily’s fretting gaze. No doubt this was the young woman’s first brush with a birthing. “Hours, mayhap days, a woman’s pains can run as she fights to bring a child forth,” Gwenyth replied.

Her words made Cecily blanch to a ghostly shade of white.

Gwenyth clasped Cecily’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “But come, let’s see what we might do to ease Her Ladyship’s pain while she waits.”

Casting a hooded glance at Gwenyth as they passed through the corridor to Sophia’s apartments, Cecily bit her lip. Having been an illicit witness to what had gone on last night, she’d hated bothering Gwenyth. Why should this woman do anything to help a Fleming? She’d been met with little more than suspicion, condescension and hostility. And now it seemed as if Rafe had cast her off for Anabel Woodville. Only the fear in Sophia’s eyes and Derek’s continued absence persuaded Cecily to beg such a favor.

Her mother met them at Sophia’s bedchamber door. Hands folded across her chest in a gesture of impatience. “Cecily, where have you been?” she scolded. “I sent you to ask after Derek and the surgeon ages ago.” She swept a dark gaze over Gwenyth, lips puckering into a frown. “Miss Killigrew, we’re sorry to inconvenience your stay with such private family matters. I’m sure you understand. Perhaps I could have Nellie keep you company until Cecily and I are finished here. I believe she is from your part of the country. No doubt, you and she would have much in common.”

If Gwenyth took note of the less than subtle jibe by Mama, she gave no sign of it. Her face remained grave, but Cecily thought she detected a shadow of some hidden amusement pass across her features. Cecily wished she possessed even half of such poise.

“Mama,” Cecily interrupted. “Mama, Miss Killigrew is here to help Sophia. She’s a healer and a midwife. She’s attended hundreds of births.”

Her mother’s pale eyes sharpened, and she stiffened, dropping her arms to her sides. “You’re full of surprises, Miss Killigrew, aren’t you? Had I known you held such knowledge I might have come to you for some advice on my nerve ailment. It began to plague me shortly after Rafe’s return home.”

Cecily felt the bitterness in her mother’s tone. She wished she would sheath her barbed tongue for at least the time it took for Sophia’s child to be born.

A half smile teased the corners of Gwenyth’s mouth as if she were amused by the older woman’s attempts to offend her. “I’m sorry for neglecting you in your time of suffering. I can’t think I’d have been much help to you, though. Not too many of the people I see suffer from such problems, madam. They’re too busy working to put bread on their tables and keep a roof over their heads. An industrious body and an engaged mind do much to hold frail nerves at bay.”

Cecily bit hard on the inside of her cheek to stifle the laugh that threatened. Served Mama right.

“I mayn’t be an expert on nervous conditions,” Gwenyth continued, “but I’m knowing a thing or two about bringing babies into the world. If Lady Brampton will allow it, I’d be happy to see what I can do to help until the surgeon comes.”

Gwenyth started for the door with Cecily behind her, but her mother stepped into their path, leveling them with a scorching glare. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. Sophia is doing just fine.”

Cecily’s eyes widened in shock. “But, Mama! Sophia’s feverish, and she won’t eat or drink. Gwenyth could help. I know she could. I’ve seen her work, and she—”

“Cecily Anne Fleming!” Mama barked, “I won’t argue this with you. I’m discouraged by your lack of respect for my wishes and Brampton’s wishes as well. It’s an absence of family feeling that makes me wonder where I went wrong. You can be sure Edmund would never allow Miss Killigrew to attend to his wife—and neither will I.” She turned her full wrath on Gwenyth. “I don’t trust your skills, Miss Killigrew, and I don’t trust you!”

Rafe stood upon the threshold, scanning the darkened saloon. Aside from a branch of candles at the door and another set on a side table near the far fireplace, the room lay in shadow. He turned to address the footman on duty at the door. “Are you sure she hasn’t gone up to bed? It’s damned late.”

The footman shook his head emphatically. “No, sir. Miss Killigrew’s in there, sir. The housekeeper, Mrs. Beauchamp, tried sending Nellie in to see her to bed, but Miss Killigrew wouldn’t go. She said as how she mistrusted the man what was working on Her Ladyship. It’s not Mr. Sinclair, but an apothecary what we’ve never seen from Bouchard Abbey. An older man and naught but what you might call seedy, if you get my meaning.”

Rafe entered the saloon. His head throbbed, and his side ached from a drunken tumble off his mount outside of Portsmouth. Aside from the fall, he remembered little of the trip from the port city. His mind had been too full of the vision of Gwenyth’s stricken face, his heart too heavy with guilt and a bitter emptiness.

Escaping the poisonous atmosphere of Bodliam for the taverns and gin-shops of Portsmouth harbor, it had been easy to fall into old habits. He’d given full rein to the dark fury coiling inside him like a serpent, as alive now as in the weeks and months following his court martial. Mired in self-pity and self-loathing, he let a night and a day pass as he drank his way through bottle after bottle and tavern after tavern.

But he’d tried forgetting his hurt in a haze of whiskey dreams once before. It hadn’t worked then, and it did little better this time to ease the dull weight of his misery. All it did was give him a sour belly and a mouth that felt stuffed with cotton wool. Now, exhaustion hung like a cloak about his shoulders and he yearned for the comfort of his bed, but he knew sleep would never come if he ignored Gwenyth and allowed last night to be the end of everything between them.

He found her curled asleep in an armchair by the windows. Her slippers abandoned on the floor. Stockinged feet peeking from beneath her rumpled skirts. Moonlight gilded her hair and cast an opalescent glow across her face. He reached out a hand to shake her awake, but paused. How could he begin to make her understand the enormity of her rejection and the decisions it forced him to confront? He drew his hand back, stuffing it deep into his pocket. With a shaky breath, he turned to leave. He’d not the heart nor, to be truthful, the courage to wake her. What would be the point?

He’d come home to Bodliam for one purpose, to flaunt his wealth and prove to his family he could make it without their help. It wasn’t Gwenyth’s fault he’d realized too late what he truly wanted: a place where he didn’t need to flaunt or prove anything.