Dangerous Magic (22 page)

Gwenyth sensed shame and embarrassment in the woman’s words. She dipped her head in answer. “Your apology is accepted, milady.”

Rafe burst in, eyes wide, breathing almost as labored as Sophia’s had been. “I heard a child’s cry!”

Without thinking, Gwenyth smiled and taking the baby from Cecily, handed him into Rafe’s waiting arms. Why, she didn’t know. Perhaps to capture the image of Rafe gentling a baby as he never would her child. To note the extraordinary sight of the dangerous Captain Fleming murmuring nonsense to a newborn, the child watching him intently as if he understood every word spoken.

Rafe looked up, meeting her eyes. His face shone with a joy she’d never seen there before. As if now that he held his nephew, he’d been welcomed home at last and the dark years of his exile forgotten.

A heavy weight of hopelessness pressed against her chest. Giving the two of them one long look, she turned away only to find Cecily’s sober gaze settle on her.

“He loves you still.” The young woman spoke so as not to be overheard by the others. “It’s obvious to anyone who sees the way he watches you.”

Gwenyth shook her head in denial. “His heart lies elsewhere. ’Tis best this way—for both of us.”

Cecily’s eyes crackled. “And so you’ll just leave him to Anabel?”

Gwenyth offered a smile tinged with bitterness as she wiped her hair back from her face. “For good or ill, I leave him a life to do with as he pleases. Fate wouldn’t be giving him that chance with me.”

To end the conversation, Gwenyth moved away, leaving Cecily to watch her with a sharpened gaze and a mind awhirl with questions.

Cecily reclined upon a cushioned bench. Sunlight streamed through the trees above her head, seeping into her bones and easing the stress of the last frantic hours. She’d escaped to the gardens hoping for peace and quiet to savor the moments of Simon’s birth, but it was not to be. Anabel had arrived in company with Gerald to inquire after Sophia, and together with Derek, the three of them had intruded upon her refuge.

Normally, Gerald’s presence would have sent her into transports of delight, but today she was hard-pressed to show even a slight interest in any of her guests. She was too charged with the rush of excitement the baby’s arrival brought to spare a thought for Gerald. Ignoring the sulky, affronted looks he kept casting her way, she closed her eyes, picturing Simon’s tiny curled fists and rosebud mouth. So perfect, so innocent. She wondered if he would ever know the full story of his eventful birth.

Derek interrupted her musings. “Are we boring you, moppet? Perhaps we can have Mr. Minstead recite one of his odes about your eyes.”

Cecily felt a blush steal across her cheeks.

Gerald cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never written anything about Miss Fleming’s eyes, but I have begun working on one comparing Lady Woodville to the ravishing Helen of Troy. A few lines only, but I’d be happy to share them with you.” He shot Cecily a smug look.

Anabel preened.

Feigned horror danced in Derek’s eyes. “Thank you, no. I’ve been awake for twenty hours, in the saddle for twelve. But if you have a poem in your arsenal in praise of sleep, I’m all ears.”

Cecily’s heart gave an odd little flop at Gerald’s jibe. Had he really favored Anabel Woodville with a poem? She knew she should feel crushed, but all she felt was annoyance. Did he think fear of Anabel would keep her more biddable? She gritted her teeth. She was no one’s fool, and so Mr. Gerald Minstead would find to his cost. Still somewhat focused on Simon’s birth, she swallowed hard and set her chin in challenge. “It must be nice to have a talent for scribbling rhymes, but it pales when compared with wrestling death and winning. Now, that’s a calling I can admire,” she said with a defiant smile.

Gerald’s brows wrinkled into a frown, his mouth opening and closing like a codfish, and Cecily felt a twinge of satisfaction.

Anabel’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “It sounds as if the Flemings owe Miss Killigrew quite a lot. I wonder what her fee for delivering a child is? A pair of laying hens and a sack of flour? But perhaps she’ll waive it. After all, you’re almost family.”

Remembering the pain in Gwenyth’s eyes this morning and the heartrending entreaty to the heavens she’d witnessed the night of Rafe’s betrayal, Cecily’s throat closed around a tight knot.

Derek’s expression never changed, but Cecily knew him well enough to sense the anger seething beneath his calm exterior. His eyes sparked with a glacial blue fire; his voice carrying a quiet authority. “She saved my sister-in-law and delivered my nephew. I consider her family already—as should you.”

Anabel met his icy gaze without flinching. “Is that a threat?”

“Consider it advice. Look elsewhere for escape, and leave Rafe and his woman alone. He deserves a chance at happiness, at least.”

Anabel raised a brow in surprise. “Quite a change of heart for you, isn’t it? You’ve made no secret of your wish that Rafe had never returned home. Why such a turn-about?”

Derek shrugged. “Chalk it up to Christian charity, and leave it at that.”

Anabel sniffed. “Despite your title, you’ve not a godly bone in your body, Derek Fleming.” She arched a brow in speculation. “Could it be you wish for Rafe to go through with this ridiculous lopsided match to ruin any chance he might have for a return to polite Society?”

Derek plucked a rose from the bush beside him. Twirling it between his fingers, he smiled. “Think what you like. I’ve warned you. It’s up to you to heed or ignore my words as you choose.”

Anabel smoothed her hands down the thin silk of her gown, aware of the way her movements accentuated her shapely curves. She tossed her auburn curls, her green eyes shining with malice. “You’re a fool if you think this woman is anything more than your brother’s fancy-piece. He’s gulled you all into accepting his whore as a member of the family, but I know the truth.”

Cecily seethed with an uncontrollable fury. Putting aside good manners and good sense, she rose in an agitated flounce of skirts. “How dare you speak of Miss Killigrew as if she were muck beneath your boot heels! She’s twice the woman you’ll ever be. Miss Killigrew heals the wounded and cares for new mother and child with never a complaint. She’s an accomplished weaver whose wares find their way into the fanciest manors and houses in Cornwall. All this and she holds a loving heart and a forgiving spirit. You’re naught but a mean-spirited…conniving…witch!” By the time Cecily finished, her heart thundered in her chest, and her breathing came in ragged gasps.

Now that it was over, she felt drained. What on earth would her mother say when she found out what she’d done? She hugged herself to stave off the nervousness coursing through her. She didn’t regret speaking out, but she did wish she’d been less public about it. Gerald looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, and Anabel’s face had grown pinched and pale.

Derek seemed to sense her fears. He crossed to her side, placing a brotherly arm around her shoulders. Looking down at her, he gave her a reassuring smile. “Though I find fault with your execution, your heart’s in the right place.”

Cecily buried her face in his jacket. “I only hope I haven’t made things worse,” she murmured.

Derek leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Could it get any worse, moppet?”

Despite her firm resolve to leave Bodliam, Gwenyth had fallen into an exhausted sleep as soon as she left Sophia’s bedchamber. She’d not even taken the time to shed her stained gown before she flopped down upon the bed. Upon waking, she was horrified to find she’d slept half the day away.

Did some small part of her want to stay? Want Rafe to take her in his arms and convince her to tempt fate with him? With that kernel of thought taking root, she’d walked to the grotto, but the craggy outcropping of rock sat empty. The lake shore drowsed in the afternoon sun, quiet but for the spill of water over the rocks, and there had been no reassurance to banish the dream’s dark prophecy.

Now, climbing the stairs back to her room, Gwenyth remembered Rafe cradling Sophia’s child. It brought a fresh wave of anguish, almost buckling her knees with its power. She would leave Bodliam now—today. Better to withdraw knowing Rafe was, if not hers to keep, then at least safe and whole. She could not now imagine the world without him striding through it.

She entered her room, halting in surprise as Anabel looked up from a chair by the fireplace. The prayer rug lay across her lap, her hands spread possessively over the center square. “I was admiring your weaving. Beautiful work. Quite out of the commonplace, but I’ve been told everything about you is out of the commonplace.” She gestured for Gwenyth to come forward as if she were the owner and Gwenyth the awkward guest. “I needed to speak with you. I thought here would be best. Away from prying ears.”

Her words were sharp as crystal, and Gwenyth sensed Anabel’s strength of mind as she spoke them. Any insecurities were so well buried not even Gwenyth’s Sight could delve deeply enough to unearth them.

Closing the door behind her, Gwenyth shed her cloak upon a chair as she crossed to the window. Unlatching the casement, she spied Rafe crossing the lawn. He walked head up; his strides long and easy, and she felt that perhaps she was seeing him as he must have looked in his youth before he left for
Ancamna.

Anabel came up behind her. “The view from this side of the house has always been especially fine,” she said knowingly.

Gwenyth turned, leaning back upon the sill, choosing her words as she might her steps through a boggy moor. “We need not be wasting our time speaking in riddles. You’ve treed me, my lady, now say your peace.”

A ghost of a smile touched Anabel’s lips. “I like your directness, Miss Killigrew. It’s a worthy trait. But in the world you’re about to enter it will serve you ill. Where all is nuance and perception, you’ll find your forthright nature a handicap.” She glanced out the window. “And so shall Rafe.”

Gwenyth’s brows wrinkled in a puzzled frown. “What’s Rafe to do with it?”

Anabel laughed as she floated back into a chair. “Why, Miss Killigrew, Rafe has everything to do with it.”

She motioned for Gwenyth to seat herself, taking over the room again as she had taken over the conversation. Gwenyth found herself slipping into a chair opposite, folding her hands in her lap so as not to strike the condescending smile from Lady Woodville’s lips.

Anabel continued on. “No matter what’s happened in the time he was away, Rafe is a peer’s son and as such, he is expected to behave in a manner befitting his rank and station.”

“They drove him away twelve years ago. Why should he be caring what they think of him now?”

“He should care because they drove him away. He must show them he’s returned a better man. He must assure them he is one of them again. With you by his side, do you think he can really do that? He’ll be driven away again, and this time there will be no homecoming. He’ll be forever an outcast.”

“But marrying you will secure him this glittering future?”

“It will do much to bury the scandal. Before my husband’s death, I ranked high in London Society. With Rafe as my husband I could bring him back into the fold.”

“Or would he be bringing you?” Gwenyth rose, determined to end this conversation. She was in no mood to be playing cat and mouse with Anabel Woodville. “Despite your admiration for straight talk, you’ve done little of it, Lady Woodville. You’ve done a fine job of showing me my unworthy nature and Rafe’s desperate straits should he do the disastrous thing and marry me, but you’ve not even begun to give me an idea of why you’d put yourself out for Rafe in such a way. You gave him nothing but sorrow before. Why should it be different this time?”

Anabel’s face grew waxen beneath the heat of Gwenyth’s stare. “How dare you!”

“I dare because you’ve naught but thought of yourself since Rafe’s arrival. It’s not Rafe’s love you want, nor even his money. It’s what he can do for you. An escape from here back to London, a way out of the drudgery and boredom that are your lot while you remain beneath your parent’s roof.”

Anabel’s gaze narrowed in bitterness. “I’ve been living the life of unpaid companion since Charles had the bad sense to break his neck.” Her green eyes blazed. “I’ll do whatever it takes to gain back the life I lost when my husband died.”

Despite trying to hold tight to her anger, Gwenyth felt it slipping away. She and Anabel were not so different. They both fought for their future. And there was no way to tell if Anabel’s desire for a life with Rafe wouldn’t end in his happiness. It was what he’d wanted. It was the life denied him so long ago. Gwenyth still sensed a slithering air of dread at thinking of the two of them together, but she could acknowledge now that jealousy and not premonition spawned such feelings.

Anabel’s pose of arrogance faltered. “What else is there for me? My penury keeps me tied to Campion Hall, and the lures I used to entice Charles fade with each passing day. I’m thirty now. Not many who can afford me would want me when they might have some sweet, young virgin. I would risk much to find my way back to freedom again. If it takes marriage to Rafe, so be it.”

Giving in to defeat, Gwenyth sighed. “And if Rafe isn’t the man you think him? Thirteen years and a great tragedy stand between the boy you knew and the man he’s become. You risk a greater disappointment if the life you envision is not the life you get.”

A wistful shadow flickered at the corners of Anabel’s eyes, softening the harsh lines of her face. “All is a risk, Miss Killigrew,” she answered slowly. “The trick is having the courage to brave the risk anyway and the faith that no matter what happens, you’re strong enough to overcome. I ask only for a chance at happiness.”

Gwenyth heard herself echoing Anabel’s words. “A chance at happiness?”

“It’s all I seek.”

Gwenyth stiffened her spine. The words she spoke were like acid on her tongue. “The Lord says seek and ye shall find. If you can capture Rafe’s heart, I wish you well with him. I’ll not be standing in your way.”