Dangerous Magic (5 page)

Even now, years after she’d blown his world apart with her casual dismissal of his suit, after she’d laughed at his naiveté and informed him that his best friend Charles Woodville had betrayed him by wooing her with promises of wealth and a title, the old anger still gnawed at him. His despair had receded, but not his bitterness at Anabel’s treachery. He’d be damned if he’d play the fool again. But how to guarantee it?

As a poor naval officer, he’d been secure from the matchmaking mamas and their grasping, greedy daughters. Now as a wealthy gentleman in his own right, he could no longer believe that a woman expressing her undying love was not simply coveting the trinkets and trappings his money could buy.

Once more his thoughts turned to Gwenyth. He tumbled two stones in his hand, imagining his arrival home—the disgraced prodigal returning with the bastard daughter of Lord Mark Chynoweth upon his arm. Talk about placing the cat among the pigeons. A thin smile curled the edge of his mouth. Perhaps not such an outrageous proposal after all. No, he couldn’t marry Gwenyth. She’d never agree and a return to the world of his birthright prohibited him from entering into such a lopsided match. Still, if finding him a bride kept her close to him for a few weeks longer, he’d enter into such a deception. The idea of leaving her behind grew more difficult with every passing hour.

So what would induce her to come with him?

Money?

Rafe laughed at the idea of Gwenyth acting out of mercenary reasons.

Fear?

Angrily, he flicked a stone across the top of the waves. He wouldn’t threaten her even as a hoax.

He rose and stretched, chucking the remaining stones into the surf. There must be something she desired—something only he could give.

But what?

The clouds of yesterday fell to shreds beneath a freshening ocean breeze. Gwenyth hurried to the cottage, anticipation making her stomach flutter and her heart skip faster. It was Beltane. As night stole across the cliffs and the hills around Kerrow, farmers and fishermen, young and old, rich and poor would gather to light the great Bel-fires in honor of the beginning of summer and the defeat of a hard winter.

Gwenyth loved this ancient celebration. It seemed to her as if all the magics running beneath the earth erupted in one spectacular display of power and anything was possible. Heading up the road from the harbor, she passed a group of young men preparing for the night’s festivities. They piled a wagon with kindling to be driven to the hills above the village where the fires would be lit as the sun sank beneath the waves. Up and down the surrounding hills and glens similar preparations were being made to celebrate the turning of the season.

She paused to watch the men work just as a knot of young women strolled by, baskets under their arms. They giggled and eyed the men whose rolled shirtsleeves and open collars revealed gleaming, tanned flesh.

Gwenyth smiled a secret smile. How many of these ripe plums would slip away unnoticed by family and friends to meet with their lover in the woods for a more private declaration of joy? As a girl on the cusp of womanhood and with an eye to experience what had bordered on the forbidden, she’d done such a thing. Wills Hutchens, the handsomest boy in Kerrow, had thrilled Gwenyth to her toes as he led her into the copse of ash and elm, her heart beating wildly in her chest. Within the grove, she’d lost her virtue but found a magic beyond the mysteries of May. When Wills joined a merchant ship and sailed away, she was sorry but not bereft. She’d known before she took his hand that though he claimed her body, he didn’t claim her heart. And she already knew that love held no place in her future.

She lifted the latch on the cottage. Surely, she could coax Rafe from his dark mood with hint of the feasting and dancing to be had at the need-fire’s edge. He stood at the window, looking out on the garden. Lost in thought, he didn’t seem to hear her enter. His eyes remained trained on the scene beyond the window ledge, his hair loose and ruffling in the breeze. Even in Jago’s borrowed clothes, he looked every inch the noble-born gentleman. His self-possession lying just beneath his skin like the currents and tides running beneath the surface of the sea.

“I plan on leaving tonight,” he said, without turning around. “Jago says there’s a carter who hauls goods to Falmouth. He’ll take me as far south as I need to go and ask no questions. I’ll send you payment once I reach Polperro. It should be more than adequate.”

His words hit Gwenyth like a blow. She’d purposefully avoided thinking about the day he’d leave. Walk out the door without a backward glance. It was the right thing to happen. For his good and hers. But a sting of disappointment still pained her. “I’m sorry to be hearing that. They’re lighting the Bel-fires on the headland tonight. I thought you might like to come.”

He turned away from the window. “They still do that here?”

Gwenyth hid her regret behind a smile. “Cornwall clings to a few of its mysteries yet, and Kerrow clings more tightly than most. Here we find ourselves caught between Wesley and the old religion’s White Lady.”

Rafe chuckled. “Sounds awkward.”

“They can make for strange bedfellows, but we manage.”

His smile faded. “Do you manage as well as the others? Or do you find it difficult to fit in?”

“I’m neither fish nor fowl, but I’m not minding. I’ve made my place.” She paused, knowing his question sprang from something deeper than idle curiosity and knowing she needed to place space between them. Return to the polite disregard of the early days. “You’ll find your place, Rafe Fleming.” Her voice was cool, even. The voice of the seer, not of the woman. “You’re no longer just the petted son of a noble house, nor are you wholly the free-trading smuggler captain of the
Cormorant
. You’re both of these men. In the same way you learned to navigate the shoals and reefs you’ll learn to find your way between worlds.”

“You’re so damned sure of your choices. If I come to this celebration tonight, will I find the same confidence?”

His voice held a husky tone, striking an answering note deep within her. She pushed this feeling down where she wouldn’t have to examine it too deeply. Rafe Fleming would leave tomorrow. He’d be no more than a small aberration in the tapestry. A smile upon her face when age softened the hard edges of memory and her dreams lost the power of warning.

He crossed the room to stand before her, seeming to take up all the air within the small space of the cottage. Gwenyth’s skin prickled as if lightning danced across it, and warmth flooded her face.

“If I come to this celebration tonight,” he whispered, taking her chin in his fingers and lifting her face to his, “will you be my queen of the May?”

His words smashed through her good intentions. Left them in ruins. Her blood roared in her veins. She knew now that if he tried to kiss her, she’d gladly step into his arms, gladly take what he offered. And it would have to be enough to last her a lifetime. But he didn’t. So close, yet he held back. And she was left empty and wanting.

The cottage swam as if signifying the onrush of the Sight, but only Rafe’s face filled her vision, his gray-green eyes like the soft leaves of a violet, watching her, waiting for her answer. In response, she took his hand and led him out of the cottage and into the starlit night.

The bonfire shot sparks into the air. They mingled with the stars spread in a carpet of silver across the sky. Behind them, Henry Legg and Roger Trevennon played a lusty tune on a set of worn bagpipes and a harp while Jago kept the beat on his crowdy crawn. Dancers laughed as they swung each other around the edges of the fire, their faces awash with delight in the glow of the flames. The younger men began leaping the flames, their prowess measured by the amount of ale they’d drunk. Each leap brought cheers from the onlookers and screams of delight from the children.

Gwenyth watched Rafe. He sat close beside her, his outstretched leg almost touching hers, his foot tapping time with the music. The gleam of the fire shot gold into his dark hair while shadows carved lines into his face, accenting his long, prominent cheekbones, his deep-set eyes. Gods, he was beautiful. Every woman here eyed him with lust in their hearts. And her with the sting of jealousy. She’d caught herself enjoying their admiring looks. She was human, after all. And Rafe was hers. For tonight.

He turned, catching her gaze fixed upon him.

“Come,” he said as he put out a hand. “Let’s dance.”

“Your wound.” She glanced at his midsection. Beneath his shirt, his ribs remained tightly wrapped.

He simply dipped a shoulder in answer as he stood, leading her after him. She rose, knowing Jago watched her with a frown as she joined the ring of dancers. She pulled a face. There was naught her brother could say she hadn’t already told herself a million times. But it was Beltane, and for a night, at least, she’d forget the future and live only for the moment.

Round and round they whirled, the music seeming to grow louder and wilder with each beat of Jago’s goatskin drum. It matched Gwenyth’s heartbeat as she was passed from partner to partner. Her feet tripped the measure, her joy in the dance growing with each moment. She laughed as she ended back in Rafe’s strong arms. He picked her up, his hands fitting securely around her waist as he swung her around, his eyes alight with pleasure in the dance, strong ale and good food.

But something burned at the corners of his gaze when he focused on her. Desire? Hunger? She couldn’t be certain, but even without prying, she knew sin when she saw it. She answered his wicked look with one of her own and saw surprise flash across his face.

The tune died away to be replaced by another almost immediately as Vivyan joined the musical trio.

“Neath the ribbons at my breast lies a love that ne’er does rest…”
Her deep soprano voice held all the tenderness and longing of a young lover.
“…Through health and ills. Through wealth or poor. I am yours forevermore…”

Gwenyth stood listening, aware that Rafe had yet to drop her hand. Instead, as her sister-in-law’s voice rose and fell, the dancers melted into the shadows of the fire’s edge and some disappeared altogether. Rafe stepped back from the crowd gathered to listen. Tugged on Gwenyth’s hand and motioned for her to follow. No one noticed as she allowed herself to be led away, feeling as if she were fifteen again and Wills Hutchens held her trembling hand.

The headland dropped down into a coombe. Vivyan’s song faded into the night, replaced by the eerie call of the nightjar, a sough of wind across the fields and the roar of the ocean against the cliffs. Tree limbs creaked overhead, and twice the scuttling of a small animal diving for cover preceded their approach.

Rafe kept silent as they walked, and Gwenyth began to wonder where he steered her. They had left even the most cautious of trysting couples far behind. She thought to speak, but the purpose in his step and the firm way he grasped her hand as if she might escape him made her hold her tongue.

Here was her chance. The child she sought may be just a night’s passing away. Rafe Fleming stood ready to aid her, even if he remained ignorant of her intentions. He left tomorrow, but might he leave her with a gift worth more to her than any payment he could make?

She placed a hand upon her stomach. A child of her own. A daughter if she had her way. A girl with her mother’s gentle and healing heart and the strength and confidence of her father. She sent a prayer to Damara winging through the wood’s canopy, pressing the May goddess to ready her womb, to allow the passing and planting of Rafe’s seed within her. She would get one chance for the child she desired—one night to keep her promise to the generations still to come.

He stopped. Gwenyth, her mind turned inward to the dark-haired child of her dreams, and off the firm, comfortable feel of Rafe’s fingers threaded in hers, looked up and around to see where he’d led them. Ahead of her, framed in the glow of the moon, stood the dark imposing form of Goninan’s closed and shuttered west façade. To her right, the trees bent in around the stream as it made its inky, silent way into the well. The soft splash of water sounded as it cascaded across the granite to fall into the narrow cleft of rock.

“Why?” she whispered as if Goninan’s presence was a living one.

His face was lost to darkness. She felt rather than saw him shrug as he pulled her close. “I don’t know what brought me here. Of all the magic tonight, this place feels the most magical. The center of it—the eye.”

His body’s heat shimmered between them like a glow of light. Gwenyth stepped into his arms, butterflies tingling in the pit of her stomach. Enjoying the feel of him pressed against her, the steady thrum of his heart beneath her cheek, she made no move to draw closer or pull away. The scent of wood smoke, caught in the folds of his shirt, tickled her nose. She amended her earlier comparison. This was a hundred times better than Wills Hutchens. She splayed a hand over his heart. And a thousand times worse.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffled.

Still holding tight to her, Rafe leaned back. “What’s this?”

His voice soothed her, and Gwenyth wiped the traitorous tears from her face.

He began to draw away from her. “Should we go back?”

But Gwenyth caught his hands. “No.”

The urgency in her answer startled them both. He paused, and Gwenyth, led by the aching need building within her, pressed her lips to his. They were soft and warm, and she gave herself up to the feel of his mouth upon hers, the spread of his hands across her back, the heat of his body against her as they embraced. Everywhere they touched, a fire ignited, a spreading glow flickering and sparking as it ran up and down her limbs, jumping between them like heat lightning.

His kiss grew in power until she opened to him. He plunged deep, devouring her, his mouth hot and demanding. She met and matched his hunger, loving the taste of ale on his tongue, the scrape of his whiskered jaw, the clean, musky scent of his skin. He broke off to nibble a path up her neck. She shivered at the teasing flick of his tongue against her earlobe, her stomach tightening with lust.

She’d had no men since her long-ago tryst with Wills, though not for lack of opportunity. But with every passing year, the dream’s power strengthened. The images grew more vivid. The risk to her heart became too great. She’d forgotten the slow coiling excitement at a lover’s touch. The tugging throb of need with every honey-slow kiss.

What was it about this pirate captain that drew her to throw caution to the wind despite a lifetime of vigilance? His heady combination of arrogance and vulnerability? His mystery? Was that what called to her? Or was it something more? Something altogether too dangerous.

Her concerns melted under the expert touch of his hand gliding up her side, tracing the curve of her breast. His touch confident and sure, but not rushed.

Reaching up, he drew her hair free of its combs. It rippled and curled across her shoulders.

“A river of silver and gold,” he murmured, nuzzling the curve of her throat before capturing her mouth. Teasing her with slow, delicious kisses that shot sparks into her eyes. Made her moan with desire. With a quick tug, he pulled her shawl from across her shoulders and draped it upon the ground. Between one breath and the next, he swept her up into his arms and laid her gently upon the makeshift blanket.

Accustomed now to the dark of the night, she saw the greedy look in his eyes as he kneeled next to her, seeming to hesitate, unsure of how to proceed.

“You wait on something?” she asked, her voice throaty and deep.

His laugh came rough with awkwardness. “It sounds ridiculous, but…but I feel…I mean you’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met…You’re…different.” He plowed a hand through his hair. “I told you it sounded like madness.”