Dangerous Magic (24 page)

Rafe was shown to a private parlor above the Angel Inn’s main taproom. The bustling inn on the Strand was a familiar place. He’d been here twice before to meet with DeWinter and once with the Duke himself. Always he had the feeling he was being watched, the many pairs of eyes scanning him with veiled interest from behind papers and pipes. A chilling glance and a glimpse of the well-handled hilt of his cutlass was usually enough to make them turn away.

The parlor held a table and chairs as well as a long cushioned settle pulled close to a cold hearth. Weak light spilled across the carpets from a pair of long windows. It was clear DeWinter had been waiting for some time. The remains of a lunch were still upon the table along with not one but two empty bottles of claret. With that much tossed back, he wondered if the man was capable of standing on his own, much less explaining why Rafe had been drawn here like a puppet on a string.

DeWinter stood, his back to the room, eyes trained on the view beyond the window. He made no move to show that he noticed Rafe’s arrival. Rather, DeWinter pressed his forehead to the grimy glass. Clutching his ruined arm, he took a shaky breath as if the limb pained him still. Despite his jokes, the loss of the arm seemed a grief too much to bear.

Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ve come.”

DeWinter whirled around, dark eyes crackling with a murderous fire as if he hated anyone to catch him in such a despondent mood. “Fleming, good of you to answer our summons. I’d have hated to drag you here in manacles.”

Rafe’s momentary sympathy for the colonel was swiftly snuffed, replaced by a simmering anger. “At your own risk.”

The colonel gestured to one of the chairs.

Rafe moved forward into the room but ignored the offer, preferring to stand and face his tormentor.

DeWinter noted the rebuff and shrugged. “Your rabble has been a thorn in the side of the Board of Customs for years. You’ve been implicated in more heinous acts of smuggling than any other working the Cornish shores today. And suspected of murder in the deaths of more than one revenuer.”

“Suspected would be right!” snarled Rafe, furious at himself for walking into such a fool’s trap. “You’ve no proof, DeWinter, or you’d have dragged me in years ago.”

DeWinter’s lips twisted. “We did drag you in, Captain Fleming. We enlisted you in our cause. But it’s always risky accepting the King’s shilling. You’ve not yet served out your time.”

Rafe wondered if this was drink talking or if there was more behind this drastic change in the man. DeWinter had always been cool, remote even, but never vicious.

“I’ve done everything you asked of me and more. I’ve earned the right to walk away,” Rafe said.

“We decide when you walk away. You wouldn’t want Lord Brampton or the rest of the family to find out the truth, would you?”

Rafe’s blood froze, but he refused to give DeWinter the satisfaction of knowing how scared he was. “They already know.”

DeWinter gave a brittle laugh. “I doubt it. Brampton would have tossed you out on your ear had he sniffed one hint of scandal. He’s nothing if not his father’s son. Derek? I could see him ignoring your unsavory past. He’s a rum customer himself.”

Anger clogged Rafe’s throat. “Haven’t I done enough?”

DeWinter moved to the table. Picking up one of the bottles of claret, he turned it over his glass. A few drops dribbled out. “Damn. It’s about the only thing that takes away these phantom pains in the arm.” A leering smile darkened his face. “Drink or women, and I’ve not the money for a doxy tonight.”

Rafe ignored DeWinter. Let him pickle himself in cheap wine or catch the pox. Serve him bloody well right.

DeWinter continued. “One more job, Fleming, and you can sink back into the soft bosom of your family. All your troubles with the law will disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “But until then, we own you.”

“Is it information you want? Names?”

DeWinter cast him a dubious glance. “Would you give us any if you knew them?”

Rafe absently fingered the hilt of his sword. “Not likely.”

DeWinter sank into a chair. Catching his ruined elbow on the corner of the table, he stifled a moan between clenched teeth. His face going parchment white. He held still for a moment, his good hand clutching his empty sleeve, eyes squeezed shut. When he reopened them, his gaze fell on Rafe. Giving him a rueful shrug, he pulled a folded billet toward him. Clumsily, he opened the flap, pulling out a thin sheaf of papers. “It’s a run to Ireland. One man only. Weapons. Gold.”

Apparently, there’d be no mention of DeWinter’s injury, no comment on the obvious strain he worked under so soon after his accident.

Rafe shook his head. “I’ve sold out. I’m a lubber like you.”

DeWinter gave a snort of amusement. “Hardly. You may have tried to hide your affiliations, but you’ve managed to hold on to interest in a few vessels. The
Cormorant
is still yours. You own more than half of her. Your second can’t refuse, and won’t when he hears the terms.”

Rafe drew up a chair and settled himself across from DeWinter. “Why me? You could hire anyone on the north-west coast to take your man.”

“It’s too risky trying to find a man able and trustworthy who won’t talk it around when his head is full of drink or his wallet too empty of coins. You know that stretch of coast like the back of your hand. We need that sort of knowledge. Also, our agent requested you specifically. Said you’d sailed together before, and he trusted you. That’s high praise from him. He trusts nobody.”

“Who is it?” asked Rafe, running through his mind the various agents he’d worked with over the years.

“He’s a Mick. A fellow named MacKenna, Ciarán MacKenna.”

Rafe knew the man. Wild, and as deadly a customer as any he’d ever known. If MacKenna was involved, someone’s life was about to come to a swift and bloody end. He traced a purple wine stain on the tablecloth. “What’s in Ireland to cause such a fuss?”

DeWinter’s voice was thick with drink, but Rafe was beginning to realize it took more than a few bottles of claret to send the colonel under the table. “Since this Irish emancipation problem we’ve all sorts to bother with. Catholics, Protestants, Unionists, non-Unionists, not to mention this rabble of secret societies springing up all over the place and hacking each other to bits. Castlereigh thinks MacKenna can do his part to help ease tensions. Nothing can look official. Nothing that looks like it’s government sanctioned. That’s where you and the
Cormorant
come in.”

Rafe looked up to meet DeWinter’s black gaze. In this light, the man seemed faded, his face gaunt with fatigue and fast living. His clothes hung loose on his broad, muscled frame, and his hand trembled as it rested upon the table. Only DeWinter’s eyes seemed the same, black as obsidian and gleaming with some inner fire. Rafe gave an idle thought as to what DeWinter’s uncle, the Duke of Deveraux, thought of his heir’s dissipation. He smiled with a cruel sense of satisfaction. Knowing the flint-hearted duke, he was probably wishing the injury had been fatal.

DeWinter raised an eyebrow. “Think of it as serving your country, fulfilling your duty.”

Rafe felt a sudden need to down his own bottle of claret. His gut knotted in bitter anger. “My country knows what it can do with its duty. I serve nobody but myself.”

DeWinter studied him. “How noble of you. It’s no wonder the beautiful Miss Killigrew left.”

Rafe lurched forward in his seat, grabbing DeWinter by the collar. Restraining himself through sheer force of will, he let go and sat back, but his words growled out from between clenched teeth. “What do you know of Miss Killigrew?”

“She’s left Bodliam—alone. The man I set to watch says she took a coach from Carrisbridge soon after you departed for London.”

So she was gone. He’d hoped that leaving the tapestry for her to find would be enough to hold her, to persuade her. But she’d left anyway. Even if she loved him, it hadn’t been enough. How could he fight years of fear with a few months of passion? How could he push aside her nightmare of a death to show her a dream of a life—with him?

Had he come here today with Gwenyth’s kiss upon his lips and her promises still echoing in his ears, he would have denied DeWinter this victory. He would have turned his back upon the Secret Service and let them do their worst. But he arrived empty of hand and empty of heart. She was gone, and Bodliam held nothing for him now but cruel memories.

“I’ll deliver MacKenna, but once he’s in, I’m done. You can print my name in every broadsheet in Britain, but I’ll not be your slave again.”

“Slave, Captain Fleming? Hardly. You made a fine profit working with us. With your fortune, you’ll have ten of the like of Miss Killigrew all begging for your favors.” DeWinter’s hand moved to cradle his empty sleeve. His eyes glittered diamond hard. “Money can be quite a consolation.”

Women who would beg for his favors because of his wealth—the fear of these women was what had spawned his bargain with Gwenyth in the first place. Rafe gave a bitter laugh, the irony lost on DeWinter.

Gwenyth stood upon the rocky shingle, watching the waves as they rolled into the breakwater, the sun hanging low upon the horizon. Boats entered the harbor, their sails snapping as they wallowed into the protection of Kerrow’s high surrounding cliffs.

She hugged a shawl close around her. To those seeing her standing there, it would have looked only as if she clutched the heavy wool for warmth. They’d never know that the cold within her went bone deep and had naught to do with the unseasonable weather.

One man only might catch a whisper of her sorrow and know it for what it was. She felt his approach, the solid unyielding weight of him as he crushed the stones of the shingle beneath his boots to reach her.

Just before he drew to her side, Gwenyth spun around, flinging herself into his waiting arms. Unable to contain the anguish she’d held close for the past week, she buried her face in his coat, inhaling the comforting scents of wool and salt and fish. Jago was home. A childish part of her wished he could take the hurt away and make it better. He always had when they were small. But childish hurts were easily mended. This loneliness seemed to bore to her very soul and gnaw at her until she could barely stand to meet the waking days.

“Tush, Gwenyth, will you never listen to your brother then?” he scolded, though his words held no bite of anger or reproach. “Vivyan told me you’ve been coming to the sea every evening now for a week. Are you waiting on your man to sail into Kerrow harbor? I told you before you set forth one step, he’d break your heart. I mayn’t have your Sight, but give me some credit for knowing a snake when I see one.”

Jago’s arms held her close, the solid feel of his barrel chest keeping back the worst of the pain. His mild reproach helped. She hiccupped back the threatened tears. “If you know so much, you’d know ’twas me that left him,” she replied. Her voice broke into a thready whisper. “I couldn’t do it, Jago. I couldn’t separate body and soul as I knew I must to protect both him and me. When it grew too hard to bear, I ran. I only pray it’s not too late.”

The weight in her chest pressed her so that she could hardly breathe. Her lungs burned, every breath like a thousand icy needles in her chest. Struggling to inhale, the recognition of this place—this time—struck her with the force of a blow. She’d been here before. She’d felt this searing emptiness as she watched this scene roll out before her only weeks earlier. Had she only heeded her Sight’s warning, she might have avoided so much. She dropped one hand to cradle her stomach. She couldn’t wish all of it away. She’d gotten what she wanted. It was her fault, alone, that suddenly it wasn’t enough.

“You’ve been running from your fate since you were a green lass of thirteen,” Jago said. “You were bound to tire sooner or later. I’m only sorry you didn’t get the child you yearned for.”

“But I—”

“Hush, lass. You’re home where people love and respect you, and Captain Fleming is far away and not likely to darken your doorstep again. Even if your vision’s a true seeing, you’re likely never to know.”

Gwenyth’s heart lurched. “And this should give me solace?”

Jago placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head up so he might meet her gaze. Never flinching beneath her hot, angry stare, his gold-brown eyes gleamed like bronze. “Nay, ’tis only the sad truth. A death unmarked is a death unknown. And a death unknown can’t be grieved over.”

Gwenyth closed her eyes and turned away. “But a love denied and a life alone can be.”

Rafe thought later he should have stopped at Bodliam before traveling on to meet the
Cormorant
. If anything should go amiss on this final run, he wanted to make sure Derek knew he hadn’t been abandoned a second time. After their shaky beginnings, he owed him that much. But his joy at reuniting with his family had been obscured by more recent events. And his simmering fury at DeWinter’s callous summons carried him all the way to Exeter before he cooled enough to assess his next move.

Even after arranging things with Triggs in Polperro, Rafe couldn’t sit for the time it would take to pen a letter to Derek. His body thrummed with wild energy, a combination of nerves and excitement that wouldn’t allow him to sit idle in the taproom of the Heart of Oak. It demanded a release before he boiled over with impatience. It wasn’t until he recognized he had steered his mount north across the treacherous barren moors that he understood where his heart was leading him. To Kerrow and a whitewashed cottage by the sea.

Crossing the moor north of the high craggy hills above Camelford, he looked down, seeing the silver gleam of coast ahead of him. Was it a fool’s hope drawing him onward or simply bullish persistence? He couldn’t decide. He only knew that since the afternoon on Burhunt Down when his daughter’s face had shimmered before him as real and yet as elusive as a mirage, he’d been unable to lay her image to rest. She haunted his dreams and dogged his waking hours until he knew he must try one more time to salvage something with Gwenyth. If it meant nothing more than completing their initial bargain—begetting the child and leaving it behind forever—so be it. At least he would know she lived and breathed and danced and laughed, even if he never saw her or danced with her or watched her light with joy. He could find a semblance of peace with that.