Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  “Why on earth do you sit in the dark?” she scolded, throwing her bag upon the table before lighting tapers at the table and upon the chimneypiece. “And why have you let the fire die?”

  He shrugged. “Candles don’t burn in empty houses, nor does smoke rise from an untended fire. I didn’t want anyone to know I was staying here with you. Questions might be asked.”

  “Do you not know who meets your men upon the shingle shrouded in coal dust to hide themselves from the revenuers? Half the men hereabouts carry your goods away, and the other half turn a blind eye to your doings. You’re safe enough,” Gwenyth replied, irritated at returning to such a dreary room.

  She’d done it often enough before, but for some reason her earlier dreams of someone awaiting her return made it different—worse.

  Rafe Fleming stood dressed in nothing but breeches and a wide linen bandage. His hair hung free of its queue to fall across his shoulders, bright golden strands among the dark glittering in the tapers’ light. The hard muscles of his chest and shoulders lay bare, and Gwenyth remembered the warmth of his skin beneath her hands, the sleek, elegant lines of a dangerous man. Her face grew hot, and her heart knotted in her chest with an odd, unexpected ache.

  Jago chuckled. “They may ignore his smuggling, Gwenyth, but I know of a few men who’d be taking it wrong that you’ve a man living with you. Their plans don’t include Captain Fleming.”

  Amusement gleamed in the captain’s eyes. “Will they meet me with daggers drawn and force us before the village priest?”

  Angry at her body’s reaction to his presence, Gwenyth gave him a mocking glance. “Do you think I expect you to ask for my hand in marriage, Captain, simply because I bound your hurts and let you sleep upon my floor? Jago speaks nonsense.”

  Jago stepped in between them. “Perhaps, but it’s no nonsense that a Riding Officer’s been nosing about. Don’t know what he suspects, but it’s best if Fleming lays quiet here for a few more days, at least until the man heads north toward Fire Beacon Point.”

  Rafe Fleming stilled at the mention of the Riding Officer, the lines of his jaw hardening. “I should go. The revenuers may think you’re in league with me.”

  Gwenyth knelt by the hearth with the tinderbox. “And aren’t we?”

  He ignored her. “If I’m caught here, it could go bad for you.”

  Gwenyth struck a spark with her flint. “You’ll stay. Your wound is still fresh. I’ll not have it sour because of poor tending.”

  He sank onto a chair. His hands upon the table balled into fists of impatience, but Gwenyth noted the pallor of his face, and the sweat beading his brow despite the chill of the room. He recovered, but not rapidly enough to fight off a revenuer.

  “How about your cottage, Killigrew?” he asked. “I can pay for my room and board.” He gave a dry laugh. “My villainy’s made sure of that.”

  Jago shook his head. “I’d like to help you. But I’ve my wife and children, as well as my wife’s mother and sister.” He pulled at his chin. “There’s no room for more. You’d be better off here with Gwenyth to look after you.”

  “Despite the outraged sensibilities of a rabble of fishermen? I’d hate to be attacked in my sick bed,” he slanted an appreciative glance at Gwenyth, “especially as their suspicions are unfounded—as of yet.”

  Gwenyth ground her teeth at this jumped-up sea rover’s confidence. She opened her mouth to snap a response, but Jago forestalled her.

  “They may wish mischief, but naught will happen to you here. It’s as Gwenyth said,” Jago answered. “No one in Kerrow thinks twice about a Killigrew’s strange doings. We’ve a reputation, you could say.” He laughed. “As far back as grandfathers remember their grandfathers telling it, Killigrews march to their own step, and the women march with the oddest gait of all.”

  “What the bloody hell does that mean?” the captain asked.

  Gwenyth rose and crossed to the table. He glanced up at her, his eyes in the light flashing like a rough sea. She reached over and covered his hand. “It means you stay here, and you stay safe.”

  “…she is gone to another. She has left you behind. Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on…”

  Rafe moved his head upon the pillow, seeking the source of the singing, but fog pressed him upon all sides. He drew a breath, pain slashing its way across his ribs, burning up through his lungs.

  “…she is gone to a brother. She does treat you unkind. Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on.”

  The voice continued, picking at his wounds with scalpel precision, dredging loose a past he’d locked away long years ago. Sparkling cat’s eyes seared the cloying fog like warning lamps. A kiss-me smile curved like the painful tail of a whip.

  A woman’s infidelity had lit the fuse. The charge of mutiny provided the powder. And for one crystal-clear moment as the guards came to arrest him, he’d seen the two meet and ignite before his world exploded in a shower of rage and despair and horror and pain.

  “…Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on…”

  She disappeared into the thickening fog. He reached for her, but his bonds pulled him taut. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He thrashed against his restraints. Hurling curses. Then prayers.

  His back arched, scars burning with a phantom pain. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, hands clenching as the words pummeled his mind with memories he’d sought to erase first in drink, and then ambition.

  A woman had destroyed him. It had taken all his strength to scrape his way back from the edge of oblivion to wealth and independence.

  He would not risk such treachery again.

  A cool hand upon his shoulder held him down. “Naught but a nightmare.” A murmur like the purr of the ocean became an echo, then a voice, light and clear as music. “You’re safe, Captain. ’Tis but a fever-dream. None will harm you here. I’ll not let them. Sleep and be at peace.”

  His memories dissolved like fog pushed by a cool sea breeze. Panic subsiding beneath her quiet command.

  Another reassuring whisper of breath upon his cheek. A brush of lips upon his forehead, and sleep swallowed him once more.

  Rafe plucked at the frayed edge of his blanket as he stared up at the wild shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling. It had been days since his arrival, and he grew restless now that his fever had finally succumbed to Gwenyth Killigrew’s draughts. He heard her singing quietly to herself as the knock of the loom’s shuttle kept tempo. Sighing and hoping for sleep to ease his boredom, he shifted upon the pallet. Pain slashed its way down his side. “Bloody hell!”

  The rhythm of the loom ceased. She appeared around the edge of the screen. “You must be healing. I haven’t heard you curse for a night and a day while the fever raged.”

  Rafe gritted his teeth. “Either let me out of this bed or give me something to knock me unconscious. I can’t stand another minute idle upon my back.”

  She pursed her lips over a smile, but laughter sparkled in her eyes. “I won’t give you the dwale. It would do more harm than good. But, mayhap,” she put a finger to her lips, “I have something to keep you from dwelling on things too much.”

  She ducked back behind the screen. Rafe heard her pass into her bedchamber at the rear of the cottage. A moment later she returned, carrying a rolled bundle. She sat down beside him and unfolded it, revealing a weaving. No bigger than a hearthrug, it showed its age in the well-worn corners and frayed hems. But despite its years, the colors remained vivid, and the designs caught and held the eye with their stylized images. Eight squares and each one captured a scene as if the creator had sat at her door and wrought in threads what she saw just beyond her threshold.

  Gwenyth smoothed her hands across the weaving. “My mother made it when she was no more than eight or nine. My great-gran was a weaver and an artist with thread. She taught my mother Morvoren who took to it like a duck to water. Barely time for learning the arts of the healer she was so busy at her loom. I’m thought to possess great skill and my des
igns are much sought after, but Morvoren’s creations would have taken your breath away.”

  “And how will this keep me from dwelling on the fact that I’m bored out of my mind?” Rafe growled.

  “When I was a girl I used it to help me remember what I ought to be thankful for. When I said my prayers at night, I would count off the squares as I went. The animals of the earth, the birds of the air, the grasses and flowers and trees, hearth and home, family, the infinite sky, and the bounteous oceans.” She motioned to each of the squares in their turn. “By the end, sleep came easier.”

  “What’s this square for?” Rafe pointed to a square depicting an antlered man.

  She paused before she spoke. “This square is for Cernunnos—Herne the Hunter—God, the creator of all things as some see him.”

  Wind sighed past the cottage, ruffling the edges of the weaving. The hair at the back of Rafe’s neck rose. “And this one?” He touched the center and final square.

  Gwenyth Killigrew spread her palm across the black section of tapestry. “This one is left open for you to fill. You must listen to your heart. It will whisper what it wishes to the other eight squares and then into the ears of Cernunnos.”

  The night seemed to crouch at the corners of the room, alive and waiting to hear what he whispered to the empty square. Gwenyth’s face glowed in the light from the fire. She smelled of lavender and mint, and Rafe had an urge to catch her in his arms and draw her down beside him, to bury his face in the wild scents of her hair and skin.

  “What did you wish for?” he whispered.

  As if sensing his thoughts, she colored and rose, leaving the tapestry draped across his blanket. “A strong back, nimble fingers and a clear head to keep me from falling under the spell of scoundrels like you, Captain Fleming.” She slipped around the screen, turning back just before she disappeared. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “As you can see, Cernunnos granted me my wish.”

  Chapter 3

  Gwenyth glanced up just as the sun dipped beneath the western waves. Evening shadows stole over the cottage, the only light coming from the hearth fire. She stood at the table, chopping vegetables, working off her lingering annoyance in the clean, rapid strokes of the knife. Rafe Fleming was a troublemaker and a pirate. She’d no time for the captain’s quicksilver charm and smug assumptions. She should have insisted that Jago take him in. But she hadn’t. She’d let him stay. Made a point of it. And why had she done so? She refused to ponder too long. Afraid of what she might discover about her true reasons for keeping him close.

  She scraped the vegetables from the board to the pot, trying to turn her attention back to her cooking and off the uncomfortable subject of Captain Fleming. Difficult to do as he lay just behind the screen in the corner of the room. He was awake. She felt his watchfulness as a prickling at the back of her mind, a tense frustration that simmered like the stew she prepared. But he’d kept silent most of the day, and she’d ignored him as best she could, only speaking when she had to change his bandages or tend his wound. Childish, yes, but she wasn’t sure she could check her tongue after his presumptuous behavior of last night. And she’d learned long ago that her anger carried consequences.

  She’d just returned her knife to its block when a sudden rap sounded on her door, and Jago slid into the cottage, dropping the bar home behind him. His grim expression and sharp glance he directed toward Fleming’s corner told her everything.

  “The Riding Officer’s come?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Jago nodded. “Aye, he just rode into the village. He knows Fleming came ashore nearby, and he knows he was injured. Enough to seek aid.”

  “That shall lead him to me.” She shot a look to the growing darkness. “Have we time to get the captain to safety?”

  “I’m thinking not. This officer’s a smart one, and not liable to be gulled into a pint or two by the lads at Pilchard’s tavern. He’ll come seeking you as soon as someone lets on you’re the only healer within ten miles of Fleming’s beaching.”

  A voice sounded from behind them. “He may come, but he’ll not take me. I won’t wear chains again.”

  Jago and Gwenyth turned at the same instant.

  Captain Fleming stood on shaky legs, gripping the screen for support. Defiance hardened his features, burned bright in his eyes. “Stall him. Give me ten minutes head start. I can make for the hills east of here, lose myself on the moor.”

  She frowned, shaking her head. “You can barely walk twenty paces before you’re winded and the stitches are pulled. A day or two on the open moor and all my work will have been for naught.” When he tried to interrupt, she raised a hand. “I told you stay here and stay safe. I’m a law-abiding citizen, but I’m not above helping a cause when I think it’s a fair one.” To Jago, she said, “We’ll hide him in the root cellar.”

  Rugs were thrown aside, exposing a rough-hewn, wooden door set into the stone floor. Jago gripped an iron ring, opening the cellar with a loud creak and a poof of musty air. “Down you go, Captain.”

  Fleming leaned over the black hole. “This’ll be the first place he looks.”

  “It may be, but it’s a chance down there or none up here, and I’ve a mind to stay out of stir tonight. If you keep out of sight at the back of the cellar, he mayn’t see you.”

  “I’ll be trapped,” Fleming argued. “Not even a hope of escape.”

  A flurry of official knocks sounded, sending Gwenyth’s heart skipping into her throat. She urged him toward the hole. “Scarce more if we spend valuable minutes arguing over it. Quick now.”

  He climbed down the ladder, giving both of them one last doubtful look before dropping out of sight. There was a stumble, a bang and a mumbled curse before she slammed the trapdoor closed and straightened the rugs.

  “I’m growing too old for this,” Jago said as he made quick work of tidying the quilts on the pallet and tucking the slops jar out of sight. “My nerves can’t take it.” The knocks became a shout to open in the name of the King as Jago placed Fleming’s empty cup and pitcher on the table. “’Tis done.”

  “You’ll do what it takes. A survivor, you are,” Gwenyth assured him, crossing the room. “A lot like the captain in that way.” Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep, even breath. “May the gods give me a clever tongue tonight.” She raised the bar, pushing the door wide open in welcome. “No need to be waking the village, sir. We heard you. You’ve business with me?”

  The man tipped his hat, but his demeanor was anything but respectful as he took in the cottage’s interior. “The name’s Hobbs. I’m with the Board of Customs. I’m seeking information on a man who came ashore here four days ago. His name’s Fleming. Styles himself a captain, though he’s no more than a common smuggler and a criminal.” He directed a cold glance at Jago, but her brother remained unmoved. Hobbs continued. “His ship was attacked off the coast. Some say he was injured during the fight and sought aid for his wounds. The men at the harbor tell me that would make you the logical destination.”

  Gwenyth made a great show of thinking before she answered. “A man did come by here like you say, but he’s gone long since. If his injuries were grave, he gave no sign of it. Just a stitch or two, and he was off south.”

  Hobbs scowled as he dipped his head in the direction of the screen. “And the pallet in the corner?” He walked to the low cot, kicked at it with the toe of his boot before bending to examine it.

  Gwenyth crossed her arms, trying not to reveal her frightened trembling. “I care for many, Mr. Hobbs. It’s convenient for me to be keeping a bed for those who might be needing it.”

  “Like a wounded smuggler?” he shot back, his good manners wearing thin, his ruddy face growing redder. “There’s blood here. Fresh.”

  A wild, pulse-pounding tension shivered through her, but her smile remained placid, her expression serene. “Ah, that would be Mrs. Geller’s,” she said, lowering her voice. “She suffers from a woman’s complaint. Her courses, you see…” She shrug
ged, letting her words trail off.

  It had the desired effect. He whipped out a handkerchief, disgust coloring his features as he tried to clean his hands. “But you say you remember this Fleming fellow.”

  She stiffened. “I tend the wound, not the man. I didn’t ask the gentleman’s name, and he didn’t volunteer it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I search.”

  His arms crossed, his stance threatening, Jago stepped into the officer’s way, forcing the smaller Hobbs to step back. “It’s as my sister says. The man’s long gone.” His look dared the revenuer to challenge him.

  The officer puffed out his chest as if he would argue, but Gwenyth knew they’d won. The man’s sudden fear soured the air. He’d not risk a row with Jago. Not alone. He cleared his throat. Tipped his hat again in surrender. “I’ll alert the authorities south of here to be on guard. If he’s wounded, he won’t travel fast or far.”

  Gwenyth followed him to the door, still not quite believing they would get away with such a bold trick. “Quite a fuss for one man,” she said as Hobbs stepped out into the lane. It was now full dark, and a half moon splayed thin gray shadows between the cottages. “Surely the Preventives have other fish less trouble to catch.”

  Hobbs’ mouth thinned, his nostrils flared. “Fleming and his crew are wanted in the murders of two members of the Waterguard and the disappearance of a Riding Officer near Gorran Haven. He’ll hang for his crimes.”

  Her fingers pressed into the wood of the door, a headache blazing up behind her eyes. Could she have been so mistaken about Rafe Fleming? Could her Sight have missed such villainy? She wouldn’t believe it. Instead, she swallowed around the hard lump lodged in her throat. “Good night, Mr. Hobbs.”

  Startled by the accusations and her reaction to it, she almost missed the movement at the corner of her vision. Across the way and deep in the shadows, a man stood watching. His face was lost in the gloom, but patience and purpose marked his thoughts. She waited at the door as he ducked into the street to follow the Riding Officer.