Dangerous Magic (12 page)

Gwenyth spotted the group at the same time. “Well,” she said in a thoughtful tone. “That must be the man your mother’s so fearing of. Young Gerald doesn’t look like a man bent on seduction, does he?”

Just then, the man’s gaze settled on Cecily Fleming, and the boredom vanished, replaced by a covetous slide of his eyes as he reached up and squeezed her hand where it rested upon his forearm.

“Obviously the range of your talents is limited. That man’s got something on his mind, and I doubt by his lean, poetic languor it’s the latest Upper Yewford
on-dits.
”

Cecily stopped her conversation for a moment to catch Gerald’s eye, but by then the fervent longing had vanished back into resigned weariness.

Rafe threaded the carriage between an ox-dray hauling barrels and a man herding a group of sheep, a black and white dog nipping and barking at the heels of the bleating flock.

Cecily noticed their approach and waved, causing the two women to turn toward them and the young man to lose his pose of ennui. She spoke to the others, their gazes sharpening with interest by the time he pulled up in front of them.

The women eyed him like they would some exotic animal. He felt their scrutiny from beneath lowered lashes and chose to ignore it. No prickle of excitement or anticipation danced through him at their obvious attraction. Like Cecily, they seemed no more than silly, pampered schoolgirls.

“You must have the gift of foresight,” Cecily chattered, oblivious to her friends’ behavior.

Rafe scowled, his gut tightening as he threw a startled look at Gwenyth. She remained infuriatingly unreadable, her expression holding nothing more than pleasure and curiosity.

“I was hoping I might see someone from the house to take back these things,” Cecily said, holding out her arms to draw his attention to the collection of wrapped parcels set at her feet. “Though my thoughts had run toward one of the men from the Home Farm.”

“It’s over six months until Christmas,” snapped Rafe, still off-center from Cecily’s careless comment. “Why all the shopping?”

Cecily shrugged. “Mother wanted me to stop at the apothecary’s, and when Sophia heard I was walking toward the village, she asked me to run her errands as she wasn’t feeling well this morning.” She leaned into the man’s arm. “If it wasn’t for Gerald, I’d never have made it this far with such a load, but now Charlotte and Kitty have asked me to walk with them through the orchards and toward the Lady Wood. It’s such a pleasant day, I hate to say no.”

Cecily looked upon him with all the innocence of a kitten, but Rafe saw the way she clutched Mr. Minstead’s arm, and even if the look Rafe had seen upon young Gerald’s face was fleeting, it had been there. Rafe knew that look. He’d worn that look as late as last night just before…

“Of course we can be seeing these things home for you.” Gwenyth interrupted his line of thought as she drew her skirts aside to make room.

Cecily flashed her a grateful smile, but the other three in the group snapped to attention. The women’s eyes quickly broke from a casual examination of Rafe’s chest to study Gwenyth, searching as all women do for the flaw they might attack if given an opportunity.

But Gerald’s gaze lingered longest before flicking to meet Rafe’s eyes. A thin, knowing smile curled his lip as he imperceptibly nodded his admiration. Rafe’s hands clenched upon the ribbons, hoping his tight-lipped angry scowl let Gerald know just what he could do with his assumption.

Unmoved, Gerald loaded the packages into the curricle, packing them around Gwenyth’s skirts. As the last parcel was stowed, he smiled up at Gwenyth. “You must be the Cornish woman Cecily told us all about. Welcome to the neighborhood.” He looked toward Rafe. “And should I say welcome home to you, sir. You’re quite the talk of the village. A regular Lazarus come among us.”

Rafe sensed the man’s irritation and wondered at it. Was he worried Rafe might do something to spoil the attachment to Cecily? After thirteen years gone, he could hardly play the over-protective brother now.

Cecily blushed pink in her excitement. “Rafe, this is Mr. Gerald Minstead. He’s staying at the Hilliers…”

Gwenyth grew still beside him.

There was that damn name again. Anabel Hillier was haunting his steps.

“…Lady Hillier’s godson. Gerald’s family is from Yorkshire, though Gerald only goes there now for inspiration, he says. The moors are so poetic. He’s writing an heroic epic set in their barren wilderness.”

Rafe rubbed his hand down his chin. His comment about Gerald’s earlier demeanor was right on mark. A bloody poet. He should have known.

Late afternoon sunlight slanted across the park as a cuckoo sang from the top of a blossoming sycamore tree. Rafe pulled Gwenyth down the path by a tightly held hand. His steps long and business-like. No cozy reminiscences as they dallied under the enormous oaks and chestnuts, listening to the rooks and jays calling from the hawthorn thicket. He seemed intent on avoiding any lingering memories.

The path bent around the curve of greening hedge. The trees closed in. Moss carpeted the ground, and the air grew dank and loamy. Suddenly they emerged back into sunlight. Gwenyth shaded her eyes, almost bumping into Rafe when he came to a sudden stop in front of her. Before them a deep lake, its surface dappled by the afternoon sun, spread out toward a sandy embankment at the far shore. Spring-green willows trailed their branches in the water, and yellow cowslips lay in drifts down to the shoreline.

She heard the rushing spill of water before she saw it. Following the path around the lake, she found the source of the sound. Over a shelf of rock cascaded a waterfall, catching the flow from upper streams and feeding the dark waters of the lake. Creeper clung to the stones and wild columbine, its bright red flowers still tightly budded.

Rafe crossed to the ledge, settling himself down upon the outcropping, the fall’s mist drifting across him in the breeze. It silvered his hair and dampened his shirt to his chest.

“I used to come here when I needed to be alone. It could be my favorite spot in all of Bodliam’s acres.”

Gwenyth joined Rafe by the falls. She reached her hand into the water. Licking her fingers, she tasted a tang like iron or blood. She scrunched her nose.

“Part of it’s fed from a mineral spring,” he explained. “Much like the well at Goninan, though I’ve never known anyone to leave offerings here. We call it the grotto.”

He cupped his hand beneath the splash of the fall and sucked the water from his palm.

Gwenyth’s heart flip-flopped at his casual gesture. She dropped her eyes, focusing upon the craggy surface of the ledge as she willed her traitorous heart back where it couldn’t cause such ache. By the time she lifted her head, he’d turned to look out across the lake and the moment had passed.

His eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that Cecily?”

Gwenyth followed the track of his gaze. A couple walked beneath the trees on the far side of the lake, heads bent together in quiet conversation, steps slow and meandering. “It’s certainly looking like the frock she wore this morning. But I thought she said—”

Rafe’s mouth tightened. “The Lady Wood, yes she did. But that’s not the Lady Wood, nor is that a pleasure walk with friends.”

Hidden in the shadowed crevice of the grotto’s ledge, they seemed to pass unnoticed by the pair across the lake. Cecily and Mr. Minstead strolled the length of the bank before turning away from the shore to follow the path into the trees.

“He could be a fine young man,” Gwenyth cautioned as Rafe’s jaw jumped, his eyes darkening to an iron gray.

He slanted his gaze toward her. “Gerald Minstead is a penniless poet hoping to marry a fortune.”

Gwenyth sniffed. “Now you’re the one trying to read men’s characters as you would a grocer’s handbill. A scribbler of verse he may be, but you hardly know he’s penniless.”

His eyes flicked back to the trees where the couple had disappeared. “Perhaps not. But can you assure me his intentions are honorable?”

“No. I told you once my powers ebb and flow like the running tides. They wane a little each day, making it harder to sense others. I saw affection and amusement and even desire, but none guarantee he means marriage.”

She leaned back against the wall of the grotto. The sun moved across the sky, splitting the shadowed ledge, throwing bright light across them. The air grew warm, and what was once a pleasant afternoon became close and stuffy. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts. “She’s only walking with him,” she added, closing her eyes. “No more than you and I are doing now and much less than we did last night.”

“You and I are engaged to be married,” Rafe argued.

A sad smile tipped the corner of her mouth. “Saying it over and over doesn’t make it so.”

His sudden rise opened her eyes. He stood over her, his gaze fierce. “And denying it over and over doesn’t erase what we do have between us. Dreams are not reality, Gwenyth, and sometimes we need to risk a loss in order to gain what’s truly precious.”

A lump formed in Gwenyth’s throat, and her eyes burned with angry tears. “I’ve learned the hard way the power and the truth of dreams. The threat is too great.”

Rafe swung away from her with a growl of disagreement, striding back the way they’d come. She thought he might keep going and leave her there alone, but at the curve of the hedge, he left the path. Shoving his way through the tangled branches of the willows, he walked down to the shore and threw himself upon the ground. Yanked off his boots and tossed his coat aside. Rising, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a ripple of sun-bronzed muscles from years upon the sea.

Gwenyth’s breathing shallowed as he stood for a moment watching her, watching her reaction to him. After a moment, he dropped his shirt onto the growing pile. Before Gwenyth could shout or stand or gather her roiling thoughts, he threw her a defiant, furious glare and dove in.

He came up, tossing his hair from his face with a jerk of his head. Treading water for a moment, he ducked back under. Moments passed, and the surface of the lake stilled, the ripples from his passing mixing with the spill from the waterfall. Gwenyth waited for him to reappear, each second counted off to the rapid beat of her heart. Ten…twenty…thirty…and still no sign of him.

She rocked up on her knees and leaned forward, trying to see through the murky dark of the water. Her heart banged against her chest, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt. Her dream—the image of the man fighting for his life beneath the sea flashed into her head. Her mouth grew dry as she kept up the steady counting. Forty-five…fifty-five…sixty!

Like a seal, he broke the surface of the lake just beyond the reach of her arm, scattering drops around her like rain. She gasped and sat back, panic subsiding beneath a nervous anger. “You frightened me near to death with your sport!”

“I’ve not lost it. A full minute before I had to come up for air, and hardly winded.” He laughed. “Not bad for a moldy thirty-three-year-old.”

“Do you always go about scaring folks like that? I’d visions of you drowning or caught beneath the water and…” She knew she sounded like a fusty old besom, but couldn’t keep the anger from her voice as she wrapped her arms across her body.

His smile faded as he swam to the ledge and hoisted himself up on the rocks beside her. Water sluiced off him, running down his chest, puddling upon the ledge, throwing the dark swirl of the tattoed butterfly’s outspread wings into brilliant relief. His earring glittered against the dark tan of his cheek.

He put a hand out to cradle her face. “I’m all right, Gwenyth. It’s a trick—just a trick. Nothing more.”

She moved into his caress, letting his cold, wet fingers cool her burning skin. “I know that now, and to be honest, I knew it then, but the vision…the man…he’s as real to me as you are.” She ground her teeth. “I hate this.”

“You’re shaking.”

Gwenyth clenched her hands tighter across her. “And you’re the one sitting here half-naked and dripping wet.” When he made no sign of dropping his hand, she gave him a game smile. “I’m fine, truly.”

Rafe’s eyes sought hers out, their irises dark as the lake water. Seeming to ignore her words, he leaned forward, covering her mouth with his own. What started as gentle grew in power until the devouring passion of his kiss knotted her insides, burning through her like fresh caught tinder. The trembling in her limbs changed from dread to excitement with each teasing pass of his lips. Reaching up, he pulled out her combs, releasing a heavy fall of hair across her shoulders.

“Rafe,” she whispered into his open mouth, a hand poised to push him away.

He chose that moment to slide his tongue between her teeth, his hot breath and deepening seduction quickly overcoming her common sense.

A voice broke them apart like guilty children.

“Walking is the best thing for pregnancy. My sister has had five children, and she managed three miles a day until her last weeks.”

Anabel rounded the hedge, a pale green dress of filmy muslin accenting her tidy auburn curls. Spying them, she paused, her cat’s eyes narrowing slightly, her small white teeth frozen in the rictus of a smile.

Heat flooded Gwenyth’s face, but she refused to lower her eyes or bundle her hair back into order as if she were ashamed.

“Lady Woodville?” a voice questioned from beyond the curve. Sophia lumbered around the corner, a hand coming to her mouth as she spotted Rafe and Gwenyth. “Oh my,” she muttered, though her eyes danced with mischief.

Anabel seemed to gather herself together. She laughed as she approached. “Have we interrupted something?”

“Yes,” Rafe said, throwing dagger glances at the two women.

But Gwenyth merely shook her head as she backed out of Rafe’s arms. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but she breathed deeply as she fought the unbidden thoughts his attentions created.

She laughed, hoping neither woman heard the shakiness of her voice. “The man took it in his head to be swimming.”

“I was explaining to Gwenyth how they fish for food in the islands off India,” Rafe lied.

Anabel’s eyes slanted slyly. “Oh? Do tell. Perhaps a demonstration for us all?”

She swept her gaze over his bare, muscled chest and shoulders as if she sized up a bullock calf. The obvious invitation behind it made Gwenyth squirm with unease. She felt Rafe tense beneath Anabel’s examination.

“I’ve always been fascinated by native traditions,” Anabel added.

Rafe uncurled himself from the ledge. “Of course. If you insist.” He held out a hand. “Come, Sophia. Make yourself comfortable. You look as if you carry the weight of the world.”

“Just the weight of the Fleming family’s future.”

Sophia laughed, but Gwenyth frowned at the pallor of the viscountess’ face and the perspiration shining her brow.

Rafe crossed to help Sophia navigate the grotto’s unsteady rocks.

Anabel gasped as he passed by, her eyes focused upon Rafe’s back, her face draining of color. “Ranulf! Dear God!”

Rafe froze, his fingers just touching Sophia’s outstretched palm. “Don’t you like my tattoo?” he asked casually.

Anabel didn’t answer. Instead she put out her hand to caress the scarred flesh of his back.

He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. “The Royal Navy is nothing if not thorough,” he scoffed. “And they have little tolerance for mutineers and those who attempt murder. I’m only sorry I didn’t finish the job.”

Rafe’s fury smashed its way into Gwenyth’s consciousness. His despair burrowing past her mental barriers until she ached with a shared pain. But beneath both these emotions, lurked another. Tattered and faded as old cloth, it remained despite the years that had passed.

Gwenyth’s gaze traveled between Rafe and Anabel, teeth-chattering cold seeping deep into her bones once more. For she knew all too well that desire was a dangerous emotion. And despite the head’s best intentions, the heart was difficult to deny.

Rafe’s eyes snapped open upon the black emptiness above his bed. His gaze still lingering inward where a frigate lay at anchor, a line of marines at attention upon her foredeck. He still felt the burning heat of the cat upon his back and heard the endless beating of the drum in his ears. In his dream, he’d cried out. Had his shout carried over to his waking? All remained quiet. In fact, the ship was strangely tranquil, no clank of the pump, no slap of water against her sides.

He ran a hand through his hair. It lay damp against his forehead, and sweat dripped down his cheek. It took a minute or two for the nightmare to lose its potency and the reality of his dark, silent room to penetrate his senses. The
Cormorant
was no longer. This was Bodliam. He was home. He was safe. He was alone.

His skin pebbled in the chill air from his open window. He rose and, throwing a dressing gown over his nakedness, padded to the door. The house was still, everyone long since retired. He’d not expected to sleep so long or so deeply, but now that he was awake, all he wanted was Gwenyth, the slide of her silky flesh, the hot sweet taste of her mouth, the soft brush of her hair across his chest. He knew she would banish the last tattered shreds of his dream.

Feeling his way down the darkened corridor, his groin tightened with need as his heart floundered in his chest. He laughed at his inexplicable confidence in Gwenyth’s ability to turn aside his memories. She knew the power of dreams, she said. If anyone could blunt the cold, hard edges of his past, it was Gwenyth.

He stopped in front of her door, checking up and down the corridor in case someone might be watching. In the eyes of the house, they were engaged, but that didn’t mean they would countenance midnight visits to her chamber. If they found him sampling before the ceremony, matters could get difficult when the inevitable occurred and the tie was severed. He wanted no complications like a misplaced sense of Fleming noblesse oblige binding him to her once the two of them had completed their arrangement.

He turned the knob, but nothing happened. He pushed against the paneled door, but no amount of force could change the fact that Gwenyth Killigrew had locked him out.

On the other side of the door, Gwenyth sat up against the headboard, arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs. Listening as Rafe struggled with the lock, and even whispered her name, but she never moved.

Brazenly, she had thought herself strong enough to take what she needed from Rafe, and never risk a deeper entanglement. This afternoon had been a warning to her. Events began to spin out of her control. If she would free herself from this place and this man without further pain, she needed to tread carefully, as if she walked a treacherous cliff’s edge.