Dangerous Magic (3 page)

“Captain Fleming?” Gwenyth Killigrew shifted to look over her shoulder at him. She frowned in confusion. “Are you well?”

Rafe opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, only a garbled sound as pathetic as the child’s moan. He staggered toward the door and out into the air, breathing deeply to stave off the dizziness.

The woman’s voice followed him from the cottage. “A bit squeamish for one o’ the Gentlemen, ain’t he?”

Bent over with hands upon his knees, head hanging limply beneath his shoulders, Rafe felt like a complete and utter idiot.

He had only a few moments before he drowned.

The wave broke over his head, washing him under the tangle of broken spars and rigging. For a handful of heartbeats he held his breath as each swell pushed him farther and farther into the wreck of the ship. With a frantic kick, he cleared the surface, gasping in salty air to fill his burning lungs. He reached for a remnant of decking floating just beyond his arms. His fingers grazed the edge of the rough wood. He kicked and tried to swim toward it, but his legs tangled in the submerged shrouds. Like eels they wound about his ankles, floated up and over his knees until he was stuck fast. So close to safety, yet unable to gain purchase upon the slippery board.

The cold, storm-tossed sea sucked the warmth from his body, chilling his limbs, numbing his responses. Soon he would exhaust himself with the fight. Already the roar of the squall faded into his muzzy brain. He reached—stretched, using every last ounce of strength within him. The board bobbed and slipped farther away from his grasp. Another wave broke upon him. This time he did not try to gasp a saving breath. There was no time, and no point.

The ship, with a final groan like that of a dying man, rolled upon its side and slid beneath the water. The shrouds twisted around his body. He cursed as he looked upon the sky one last time before he was dragged under…

Gwenyth came awake with a start, her breathing ragged as if she were the one pulled beneath the wreckage. Wiping a hand across her face, she encountered tears. She’d been weeping again.

Cothey, woken by her movement, stalked to the head of the bed. He rubbed against her, mewing his concern before curling upon her pillow.

Lying back, Gwenyth stared up into the gray of the rafters. Birds called in the bushes outside, and footsteps sounded beyond her door as the first fishermen passed her cottage on their way to the harbor. She inhaled, savoring the scents of the hanging herbs surrounding her—soothing her. They expunged the smell of salty spray that pervaded the dream. They pushed the vision of the man’s drowning back into the recess of her mind that brought him forth time after time, year after year. By now she’d memorized every sway of the sinking ship, every struggle of the man in the water, every thought that ran through his head as he fought to stay afloat.

Years of experience told Gwenyth that sleep was at an end. She rose, throwing on a gown, tying her hair up in a kerchief. If sleep wasn’t an option, then she would work.

At the hearth, she lifted off the curfew covering the remains of her fire. Busied herself with flint and kindling. Soon a blaze cheered the room, dispelling the last tattered edges of her dream.

Gwenyth rose, dusting ashes from her shift.

“Keeping a lover’s tryst?”

The sleepy drawl sent her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around to find Rafe watching her from a chair by the window. Any other time, her response would have been quick and cutting. Captain Fleming’s arrogant manner infuriated her, and she would have been happy to make him feel the full force of her displeasure. She even saw him tense as if he awaited her attack. But as the pressure built behind her eyes, the power enough to peel the sly mockery from his voice, she felt his desperation heavy and thick in the air.

The words on the tip of her tongue suddenly tasted bitter and cruel in her mouth. She caught them back, mumbling, “I couldn’t sleep.”

Dropping her gaze to the floor, she closed her eyes, pushing the Sight down deep within her, restraining it as if she chained a wild animal.

“With sleep comes dreams,” he said, almost to himself. “Things best left buried.”

Gwenyth’s eyes flew open as she swallowed hard, her whole body going still. How had he known? Surely, he carried no gift of Sight. Not even Jago sensed the shiver of power that came with the kenning.

He glanced out the window. She noted the harbor framed in the glass behind him, the rocks of the breakwater gleaming black against the silver-gray of the sea. Her pulse slowed as she understood. “You dream of your ship.”

His face hardened into tight lines over his chiseled cheek bones. “I dream of six ships. And a drumbeat that echoes around my head until I feel as if my skull will split in two.”

He ran an unsteady hand through hair that fell long, brushing against the tan of his shoulders. The broad muscles of his chest flexed as he shifted in his seat, wincing and catching a hand to his ribs as he did so. He caught her watching him and grimaced. “It’s healing, but it stings like the devil.”

Gwenyth’s skin prickled, and an unwelcome heat formed deep in her belly. How could this man annoy her and intrigue her all at the same moment? It wasn’t fair.

She hid her discomfort by turning away, busying herself with preparations for leaving. “Be grateful you’re still alive to complain. An inch in any direction and you’d have died before the boat reached the beaches,” she snapped.

A smile curved the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take your waspishness as a sign that you care. But I have to say your nursely compassion leaves a lot to be desired.”

Gwenyth suppressed a laugh. She wouldn’t let go of her anger. It wouldn’t do for him to get ideas. The ones he had were bad enough. And the ones she was beginning to entertain were downright dangerous. She prepared her basket, humming as she packed her heavy leather gloves, a trowel and spade for digging, a slender-bladed knife.

“Where are you going?” he asked, the sarcasm gone and now only a quiet interest in his voice.

She made herself face him. He leaned forward in the chair, watching her, staring almost. But there was no boldness in his gaze, and she tried to smile as she slung her bag across her shoulder. “To gather and restock my supplies. I’ll be back by nightfall.”

Cothey jumped into his lap, burrowing his head into Rafe’s middle. He relaxed, the mischief dancing in his eyes as he stroked the tabby. Gwenyth cast a baleful glare at the traitorous feline, purring as he kneaded Rafe’s chest.

“And will you still be humming ‘Black-Eyed Susan’ when you return?” he asked. “I know another in the same vein.
‘O why went he sailing from his own dear shore, For to face those great storm winds and the seas that do roar.’
” His voice was deep and powerful, but she felt a thread of sadness hidden under the bravado.
“‘I said when we parted and he swore to come again, My heart tells me, my true love, I shall see you no more.’”

She hadn’t been aware of her song and flushed with annoyance. Both ballads spoke of the sea and the loss of a lover. It was obvious the dream lingered in the shadows of her mind, and that Captain Fleming’s stay needed to end—soon.

“You’ll have every cat in the village coming to answer such caterwauling,” she mocked, hoping to turn his penetrating gaze aside. He saw and seemed to understand too much for her comfort.

Without waiting for an answer, she was out the door.

“It’ll be lonely without you,” he called after her. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

She strode up the lane, her face flaming.

Someone to watch and wait for her return.

Someone to love her.

She choked back the traitorous thought with another. One that burned clear in her mind.

Someone to drown, leaving her alone with her grief and her memories.

No. Never.

Rafe sat and whittled, the scrap of wood slowly taking shape beneath his hand. Beyond the window, the afternoon light faded. Gwenyth had never brought up his shameful cowardice when faced with the child’s injury, and relieved, Rafe let it sink beneath the surface. How could he explain the unexplainable to her? How could he make her understand how he could watch men destroy one another without batting an eye, but to see men attempt to put those same broken bodies back together made him dizzy and sick? He couldn’t, and so he kept silent and let her think what she would.

She’d left before sunrise this morning, but as she readied herself, Rafe had watched her with drowsy contentment as well as with a maddening hunger that grew with each hour spent in her presence.

To feel that ribbon of gold spill across his chest, to remove that gown and uncover the soft warm flesh beneath, to taste the summer sweetness of her lips filled his dreams. She’d made sure he knew to keep his distance, but when had that ever stopped him before? No, something about her made him keep away, hold his tongue. Whether it was her gift of kenning or her regal bearing—hell, she moved with more grace than his mother—it didn’t matter. The results were the same, this mounting ache to take her as his own, and no way to quell it that would not drive her further away.

But now it was dusk, and she hadn’t yet returned. Could she have fallen? Could gypsies or tinkers have come across her? He scoffed at such notions. She was a grown woman and had tramped these hills and cliffs for years before his arrival. But as the sun sank beneath the waves, and the tread of feet outside his door grew quiet, he found himself whittling less and worrying more.

He lit a lamp as the light dimmed. Gwenyth’s cats appeared, awaiting their supper, but still no sign of her. Rafe stood, dusting shavings from his breeches. His side still throbbed, but the wound smelled clean, the edges knitting quickly. He paced as he toyed with the idea of going out in search of her. It was madness. He’d be lost in the dark before he’d gone more than a mile. But to hell with it. Standing around here wasn’t getting him anywhere.

His decision made, he reached for the latch…and the door opened. She stood upon the threshold, hair loose about her shoulders.

“Where have you been?” he snapped. “Do you know how long you’ve been gone? I had visions of you hurt or kidnapped or…”

A sly smile brightened her face. “I was thinking visions were only a Killigrew curse. Do the Flemings suffer from such fits as well?”

“Only when provoked,” Rafe replied from between clenched teeth.

At her teasing, his earlier hesitation vanished. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him. His other hand curled around her side, his thumb resting just beneath her breast. With one brush he could caress her nipple until it stood taut with desire. With one tug he could draw her to his pallet upon the floor and discover the ripe flesh and sweet honey he knew existed beneath her unflappable calm.

He waited for the storm of protest, but none came. Her eyes met his for an instant before she closed them and stepped into his embrace. He lowered his mouth to hers, feeling the soft warmth of her lips, the press of her body against him. He tasted the sweetness of wild strawberries in her kiss and smelled the crisp wind off the sea in her hair.

“Mistress?” came a small voice.

Startled, Rafe fell back, dropping his arm to his side. Gwenyth took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, before turning around. A small boy, no more than ten, stood in the doorway, eyes wide as he peered at Rafe.

Rafe’s pulse thundered, his body all too aware of the space between himself and Gwenyth, but she smiled, irritatingly unruffled despite the kiss they just shared.

“This is Jacob Landry. His mother’s in labor, and they’ve sent for me. I’m sorry you’ve worried, but you can see I’m fine. I’ve come home only to gather a few things.”

She pushed past Rafe and began to move from cabinet to cupboard, preparing a bag to take with her. Rafe looked from her to the small boy. “Where does the family live?” he asked.

“South of here near Laneglos. If we hurry I can be there in an hour.”

The shadows of evening had lengthened into night. Clouds covered the waxing moon, and a spitting rain had begun. “You can’t go alone.”

She looked up. “Can’t? Don’t be daft. Besides, I’ll have Jacob for company.” She rummaged among a cupboard of stoppered bottles.

“The boy’s thin as a whip and barely out of shortcoats.” Rafe ignored Jacob’s offended look and crossed toward Gwenyth. He knelt on his haunches beside her. “He’ll do you no good should you run into trouble.”

“And what sort of trouble do you think I’ll find on a night like this?” She laughed, rising to dust her skirts. “Mayhap smugglers?”

Pulling the flap closed upon her bag, she started for the door. Rafe remained where he was, exasperated and excited. The feel of her kiss lingered. He tasted her on his tongue. How far would she have gone if the boy hadn’t been there? He’d never know, and that just made him ache with renewed frustration.

Gwenyth grabbed a cloak from a peg by the door. Ushering Jacob ahead of her, she turned back to catch Rafe’s eye. “Coming then? Or do you expect me to fight off the villains alone?”

The beer made another round. Rafe tipped his mug back, the last few smoky-bitter drops sliding into his empty stomach with a thud like grape shot. How much of the horrible stuff had he downed during the empty hours he’d been kicking his heels outside the Landry cottage? Hard to say. No sooner was one pitcher emptied by the group of waiting men than another replaced it and the circuit began once more.

Lamps burned low and were filled. Dice emerged from someone’s pocket. Laughter and conversation flowed as freely as the beer until tongues loosened and heads swam.

Rafe accepted another mugful from a brawny-shouldered farm boy who never quite met his eyes. Passed the pitcher along to the expectant husband whose attention, despite the men’s best attempts, remained divided between his wife’s confinement and the unexpected stranger in their midst.

“She and the babe will be fine, Tom. Naught to worry you,” one man offered with a comforting nudge.

“Aye, the witch will see she comes to no harm,” agreed another.

“Wish she’d see to me,” was the good-natured ribald response from a third.

Rafe shot the man a sharp look as he tossed back another throat-clawing swallow.

“Careful, Scobey,” Tom Landry chuckled. “You’re upsetting our guest. He’s liable to call you out for impugning the fine lady’s honor.”

The men’s attention swung toward Rafe who stiffened beneath their curious scrutiny. They’d unbent enough to welcome him into their circle, but they remained wary of his presence. Their mistrust alive in their lamp-lit gazes and the questions they dared not ask.

He answered their regard with a dangerous stare of his own. If they assumed he shared Gwenyth’s bed, so be it. It wasn’t any of their damned business that she persisted in regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and long-suffering amusement. And yet tonight, she’d not only accepted his kiss but returned it with unfeigned ardor. For a moment his life had settled like sand in a glass. He’d envisioned a future of belonging, uncomplicated and safe—with Gwenyth at his side. It had been as real as her cottage, the firelight and the warmth of her body in his arms.

“The witch frightens me,” piped up a young farmer, his chin ruddy with a new beard. Laughter greeted this confession, but the man stood his ground. “I don’t care how beautiful she is, I’d not want a wife who could pick through my head like plucking stones from the shoreline.”

Landry leaned forward to accept the pitcher. “Jonah’s right. Miss Killigrew may be uncommon pretty but it would be an uncomfortable life for a man to live with one touched by the fairy-folk. No doubt on it.”

The mountain of a man beside Rafe hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat with a wide, leering smile. “I’d take my chances for just that reason. Think on the advantages, lads. A wife to warn you of poor harvests or rising prices. Storms or bonny weather. To be at your back making certain the feed dealer’s not swindling you at the scales or the shopkeeper at the counter. The Witch of Kerrow’s gift of Sight could be a mighty useful tool in the right hands.”

One or two nodded, but neither the older Landry nor young Jonah looked entirely convinced.

A new pitcher made its way back to Rafe. He grabbed it, but his mind remained anchored on the explosion of a thought.

To warn you. To be at your back.

An elbow nudged him in his bandaged ribs, the edges of a wild notion vanishing in a shock of eye-watering pain. Taking a last swallow, he excused himself from the circle of men to wander the shadows beyond the lantern’s glow.

A useful tool, indeed.

Sarah Landry lay upon her bed, a group of women attending her. Sarah’s sister-in-law, Polly, held tight to her hand; Eliza Scobey worked the fire to keep the cottage warm. While Betsy Faull rubbed Sarah’s back, Gwenyth checked the baby’s progress. “Not much longer now.” When Sarah’s contractions grew closer, Gwenyth drew near. “Push, Sarah. Push down.”

For Sarah Landry this was baby number six. She knew what she had to do, and Gwenyth was naught much more than a witness.

“It’s coming, Gwenyth. The babe is coming. I can feel it.” Hands white-knuckle braced upon Polly’s shoulders, Sarah rolled up to rest upon her haunches.

Gwenyth guided the baby’s descent with a practiced touch of her fingers. “Easy, Sarah. One more push and you’ll be holding the mite.”

Sarah bore down, eyes squeezed shut, face red with effort. The baby dropped into Gwenyth’s hands with an angry wail.

“’Tis a girl child,” Gwenyth announced. “A beautiful girl to be spoilt by those five boys of yours and her father too.”

She wrapped the baby and handed her to Polly. “You did much to aid me today, Polly. I thank you for doing for Sarah while you waited on my coming.”

Polly Landry blushed under the praise. “I’d the easy doings, Gwenyth, but grateful to you, I am, for teaching me enough so I could help.”

Gwenyth finished with Sarah and washed her up while Polly cleaned and dried the baby. “You’ll be taking work away from me soon enough.”

“Never.”

“Oh aye, and probably a good thing. The villages south and east of here need a good healer and the women a midwife. You’ve the gentle touch, and women trust you. That’s important.” To Sarah, she said, “I’m leaving you with a tonic of cinchona bark and gentian root for weakness. Polly can help you with it. If you have need of me, send Jacob. If not, I’ll look in on you in a week or so.”

“Bless you, Gwenyth. We’ve some fine cheese, and Tom caught some fish for you as well. Will you be taking breakfast with us?”

Gwenyth looked to the door. She knew Rafe Fleming stood just beyond with the other men. He’d shadowed her all the way here, and, despite her assurances that she’d be quite safe, refused to leave. A tingling began in her stomach as she recalled the thoughtless kiss he’d pressed upon her. The damped power behind it leaving no doubt of how much more he could give if she only allowed him rein.

She refused to look too closely at why she’d permitted him such a liberty and not thrown him out on his ear. Or worse, shown him what she might do if she turned her gaze full on him. If he’d memories of a splitting headache before, it would be nothing to what she might do if threatened. But she hadn’t. She’d accepted his kiss and even returned it, enjoying the demanding heat of his lips, wondering at the swoop of her stomach when his fingers brushed her side. It was more than any man had ever elicited from her before. Until now, she’d been well able to separate her head from her heart. Not so with Captain Rafe Fleming. That was disturbing, and yet a little exciting.

She shrugged, disoriented for a moment. “No, I won’t be staying for breakfast. I’ve things that take me home.”

Sarah gave her a knowing smile. “Betsy says he’s comely to look on, though he doesn’t talk much.”

Gwenyth’s eyes widened slightly. “Who?”

Sarah laughed. “The thing that takes you from us, or should I say the man.”

Betsy giggled. “Who is he? I’ve not seen him before. I’d have remembered a face like that.”

Gwenyth narrowed her gaze upon the flighty young bride. The power grew within her, but she clamped a tight lid upon it. She didn’t want to scare Betsy, but this was a treacherous turn of conversation. “A seaman? A deserter fleeing the press-gangs? ’Tis best if you don’t ask too many questions,” she suggested.

Betsy’s eyes darted back and forth. She gave a nervous smile and turned away to fold cloths over a rack by the fire.

“The single men will be green with envy,” Eliza said, breaking into the tension. “They’ve been following you about for years hoping you’d decide.”

Gwenyth pushed her unwelcome excitement back down where it couldn’t tempt her with ideas unlooked-for. “Well, I haven’t decided anything, so the men can keep their hopes to themselves.”

Eliza wiped her hands upon her apron, mouth spread in a wide smile. “I’m wishing the Aiken women turned their backs upon the men as the Killigrews did. I’d not now be washing, feeding and cleaning up after two sloppy men and their father.”

Betsy shrugged. “Oh I don’t know about that.” She glanced at Gwenyth with eyes full of pity. “It must be awful lonesome on a cold night. When I’m sad or lonely or I’ve dreamed ill, it’s comforting to wake and curl next to Jonah and know I’m safe and cared for.”

Gwenyth shuddered, thinking of the man and the ship and the awful helpless feeling she experienced as she watched the shrouds pull him under. It was ill dreaming that kept her from the love found in Jonah and Betsy Faull’s tiny cottage.

Polly brought the swaddled infant to Sarah who held out her hands, tucking the baby in against her breast with a practiced ease. “Well I haven’t seen the man, but it’s past time you should have a child about you.”

Gwenyth’s gaze lowered to the small head peeping from beneath its blanket. It grunted as it rooted for Sarah’s nipple, its little head fidgeting back and forth.

Sarah directed her attention to the hungry baby. The others turned to cleaning the room, and Betsy stepped out the door.

A pang seized Gwenyth beneath her ribs as she watched the child. A tingling ache flooded her breasts, and her eyes grew hot and scratchy. For some reason, her mind strayed to Captain Fleming. Sarah misunderstood the bond between Rafe and herself, assuming he was the chosen one, the man who would give her what she needed to fulfill her destiny and pass along her gifts to the next Killigrew daughter.

But was it such a stretch to imagine him fathering her child? She’d tried keeping her distance, but she couldn’t deny the draw between them, an attraction that, though kept under tight restraints, simmered beneath the surface. Why, she didn’t know. Attractive, he may be: tall and lean with eyes that reminded her of mist-covered hills or the froth of a swift-moving stream. But there had been men in the past more polished and more charming. Suitable he was not: captain of a smuggling vessel, a rogue and a criminal—and a gentleman. Despite his rough manners and coarse company, there was no mistaking his birth and his breeding. They branded him as surely as the lash marks scarring his back.

Betsy returned. “The men are fretting for some food before they leave for the fields. Your sailor’s asking for you, Gwenyth. It’s getting on to morning.”

Gwenyth broke her gaze from the baby, sighed and stretched. She patted Sarah’s hand. “She’s a fine girl.”

Sarah caught Gwenyth’s hand, squeezing it. “You’ll have a daughter of your own soon, and it don’t take the gift of Sight to tell me that.”

They walked side by side, not hurrying but in pleasant accord as they followed the road northwest to Kerrow. The lantern they carried was hardly needed as the sky paled and the first birds called in the hedges. Rafe drew in deep breaths of rain-sweet air, filling his lungs with the scents of good earth and growing things. It made him think of Bodliam and wish he were back in the southern countryside again. It made him yearn for home.

Soon, he told himself. Soon he would round the gate-house lodge, the curve of Bodliam’s dome swimming in and out of view between the heavy stands of oak and walnut. Soon the screech and cackle of gull and chough would be replaced by the whirr and chirp of pheasant and woodcock. Soon he would top the last hill and see the dark surface of the grotto’s lake to the north of the house, a quiet brooding place—a spot to ponder loss and betrayal and to grieve.

Would his family welcome him back, or had his disgrace placed him beyond the pale? He’d have his answer by month’s end.

He’d see
her
again—Anabel Hillier. There’d be no avoiding it. Even married to Charles she’d be home often to visit her family. She’d be a constant reminder of his past. But things were different now. He was different now—older, wiser, wealthier. He’d make her regret her greed.

He’d planned his homecoming over years. Imagined while curled in a Falmouth doorway, drunk and dreading the rough hand of the press-gang, the way he’d saunter nonchalantly into Bodliam’s main hall in his expensive tailored clothes. Pictured while he fished the pilchard shoals, his sour belly and splitting head making every pitch of the boat an agony, the astonishment then the respect in his family’s eyes once they realized he’d returned a wealthy nabob. And dreamed while he’d slid through a Revenue cutter’s shadow on a run between Cornwall and Brittany with a hold full of contraband and a mind full of secrets, of the day he’d have every hypocritical, self-serving Society matron yearning to catch him for a son-in-law.

The long years of plotting ended here.

His lips curled into a cold smile. Perhaps he’d toy with Anabel before he broke her. She’d be the one crushed and humiliated. Fitting for the woman who’d stripped him of so much.

Only the Navy had taken more.

Emerging from a stand of trees, they entered a wide, overgrown lawn. Grass stood waist-high. Brambles and runners of ivy and bindweed sought footholds among the high broken hedges and crept in tangled runners across the carriage drive. Gwenyth pushed on through the brush, but Rafe paused, looking about. At the head of the drive stood a house shaded by ash trees. Trailing vines sprouted from chimneys at either end of a slated roof. Creeper clung to the granite walls and weeds choked the entranceway, but the remnants of gravel paths and well-trimmed hedges were visible beneath the jungle of wilderness. It must have been a fair place once. The hidden windows, if cleared of debris, would gather the growing light in the east and send it streaming into the house’s dark rooms. A balustraded terrace ran the length of the west side of the house, looking out on a murky, choked stream that dipped across the property before disappearing into the trees.

Rafe started toward the house. “Where are we?”

Gwenyth Killigrew turned back. “Goninan, it’s called. She once was part of Rosevear, the estate of the Chynoweths whose lands we cross. But Goninan and Rosevear parted company well before my grandmother’s day, and now she stands vacant and alone. The stream there empties into a well. People still come now and again to drink from its healing waters.” Her lips turned up in a teasing smile. “Some say Goninan’s haunted.”

His mouth twitched with laughter. “Every other rock, spinney and glen in this accursed county is said to be haunted.”