Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  “Ranulf? Darling, are you in here?” His mother’s voice broke the tense standoff.

  Rafe dropped Gwenyth’s hand and swung around. “We’re down here, Mother.”

  Still dressed for outdoors in a pelisse and bonnet, Honoria hurried into the room, Sophia a sedate presence behind her. “You’ll never guess who I ran across in the village.” His mother held out a hand, summoning someone forward.

  A woman glided into the gallery, auburn hair upswept beneath a fashionable bonnet, green eyes brilliant in her oval face. “Ranulf? Can it really be you?”

  Rafe scowled in confusion. “Anabel?”

  Anabel Woodville née Hillier, the conniving bitch, extended her hand as if daring Rafe to kiss it.

  Chapter 13

  Gwenyth receded into a shadowed alcove to watch this reunion. Rafe’s reaction, though quickly shuttered, told her everything she needed to know. This woman held the key to his fear, his need to understand the heart of the woman he wed before he could trust her with his own.

  He spoke as if he chewed glass. “Anabel, this is a surprise.”

  “Sophia and I met her walking in the village,” the Dowager announced. “When I told her about you, she just had to come back with us.”

  “That’s not exactly true, madam.” Anabel stepped forward and boldly took Rafe’s hand, squeezing it. Her green eyes teased. “I wanted to see for myself if thirteen years had softened his harsh tongue and given him time to forgive a thoughtless young girl’s foolishness.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s given me time to realize you were right. I could never have given you what you needed. Charles was much the better choice. How is he? Marriage to him seems to agree with you.”

  The Dowager’s face fell, and Sophia’s eyes grew troubled. Only Anabel showed no outward reaction to his remark, though Gwenyth knew the woman felt something. Bitterness and anger simmered just beneath the surface of her skin. “He’s dead. Didn’t you know?”

  Rafe flushed. “I’m sorry.”

  Anabel shrugged. “It’s been eighteen months. He died in a fall from his horse while hunting. He was always a neck for nothing rider, you know.” She spoke this last sentence with pride.

  “And you’re visiting your parents?”

  Anabel’s lips arched into a thin smile. “A visit that’s lasted since they put Charles in the ground. His cousin inherited the baronetcy. I refused to be an unwanted houseguest where once I ruled as mistress, and so I came back to Hampshire.”

  The Dowager beamed. “Isn’t it fortunate? You were always so close as children. I’d always hoped…” Her eyes clouded. “…but then that friend of yours from school swept in and—”

  Rafe cut in. “Charming Charles, we called him.” His face hardened. His stubborn mouth firming into a tight line. “Yes, well, that’s all water under the bridge. Lady Woodville and I were once close, Mother, but our youth is far behind us. There is no going back. Too much has changed.”

  Anabel sighed. “I can see the years neither softened your tongue nor blunted the edge of your anger. It was wrong of me to come.” She dropped her eyes. Her teeth caught her trembling lower lip as she turned to leave.

  The Dowager sniffed her displeasure, but Rafe neither moved nor spoke. Obviously knowing there was nothing she could do with her son, she followed in Anabel’s wake, her voice a low murmur of comfort.

  Sophia remained, surveying Rafe then Gwenyth as if wondering how much she might say. “Your mother meant only good when she invited Lady Woodville here, though it might not seem so by her bold attempts to throw the poor woman at your head.” To Gwenyth, she said, “I apologize for the Dowager’s brutal manners. Rafe’s homecoming has overset her nerves. She’s not herself.”

  “She dreams of a past that was over long ago,” Gwenyth replied.

  Sophia’s gaze was drawn back to Rafe who stared after the two women, even after they’d turned a corner and were lost from sight. “At least one that should have been over long ago,” Sophia said. “Take care, Miss Killigrew. Dreams can often lead us astray.”

  Cecily brushed the biscuit crumbs from her bodice and hid her yawn behind Lord Byron’s latest book, relieved that her mother never monitored her reading as she did her other pastimes. In Mama’s eyes, anything printed must be enlightening or educational and therefore no threat to her daughter’s virtue. If she only knew, Cecily thought deliciously as she stretched and turned the page.

  “Are you paying me any attention?” her mother whined. “Of course not. I only gave birth to you and raised you. Why should you pay me the slightest attention now?”

  Cecily sighed and lowered her book. Her mother was dressing for bed with the help of her lady’s maid. Cecily had been ordered to keep her company in her chambers as penance for her playacting of the afternoon. “I heard every word you said. Derek’s immoral and reckless. I’m flighty as a pigeon with the appetite of an ox, and now Rafe has come home ready to embarrass us all by marrying a peasant from the wilds of Cornwall. We are all ungrateful wretches for bringing such misery upon you, and we’ll have only ourselves to blame when you’re dead from a broken heart. Have I gotten it right?”

  Her mother scowled and shook a pointy finger at her daughter. “Don’t be flip with me, young lady. I shall have Edmund lock you in your room and feed you on bread and water for a week if you pay me no more respect than that. See if I don’t.” She surveyed her daughter’s generous form. “Probably do you a world of good.”

  Cecily let the jibe roll off her as she usually did when her mother was in one of her peevish moods. It did no good to argue and only prolonged the unpleasantness. Instead, she bit her lip and looked adequately contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Her mother huffed as she was helped off with her gown. “Careful, my dear. If I hear any more from you, I shall keep you at home instead of allowing you to attend the ball at Carrisbridge next week.”

  Cecily grew truly alarmed. She dropped her book with a thump. “But…but Gerald…I mean—”

  Her mother’s lips widened in a cat-like smile as she pulled her nightrail over her head and tied the ribbons of her dressing gown. “I thought that might put some fear into you. Gerald Minstead, indeed. He’s a simpleton. You’ll ruin yourself with such a fool.”

  Cecily glared but held her tongue. How dare she disparage Gerald, whose only true failing in her mother’s eyes was a marked lack of funds and an easy manner that repelled all the Dowager’s barbed comments. If she wasn’t worried her mother might follow through and keep her from the Carrisbridge assembly, she’d tell her so.

  “Not that Ranulf’s woman doesn’t make Gerald look an absolute prize,” she continued, settling into bed.

  Her lady’s maid drew the covers up around her mistress’s lap. Turning to the bedside table, she poured out a draught of magnesia and handed it to her. This was followed by two spoonfuls of Daffy’s Elixir before the woman passed her a cup of chamomile tea, curtseyed and withdrew.

  Her mother’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure my heart went into spasms when she opened her mouth. Fishermen, farmers, healers bah! I feel palpitations even now thinking back on it. What could have induced your brother to ally himself with such a low creature? He’s a gentleman despite that horrible scandal with the Navy.” Her voice grew indignant as she rambled. “I’m sure hardly anyone recalls the wretched business, and who can blame poor Ranulf? It’s obvious he knew all along what sort of villain that Captain Lovejoy was. It’s just a shame the man’s infamy came out after…after…” She swallowed hard and wiped her eyes.

  Cecily was unsure if she should answer, and what she should say. She’d known for years about Rafe’s disgrace, but it was only in the last few that she’d really understood what had happened to her brother. She flinched whenever she thought of it, and even now she wondered what Rafe must have felt those awful hours as he suffered through his horrifying punishment.

  “But that’s neither here nor there.” Her mother sniffled into her handkerchief. “It’s this
woman who concerns me now. She’s got her claws in him, that’s easy to see, but I won’t stand for it. My son shall not lose his last chance at happiness.” Her eyes glittered as she looked toward the window. “Not when it lies so very close at hand.”

  Gwenyth stood at her bedroom window. A pale moon washed the park in silver and cast its reflection across the still, dark lake she spied through the trees. Bats’ wings stirred the air while night creatures rustled in the shrubs below the window. The shadows of the ancient forest stretched out toward the house. What would it be like to walk beneath the ancient, gnarled trees on such a night? To smell the scent of loam and salt air and feel the sigh of breezes ruffle her hair? The stuffy atmosphere of Bodliam’s elegant rooms and marbled halls chilled her. The shuttered glances and tight looks made her yearn to escape if only for an hour or two.

  Her distraction coupled with the silence of Rafe’s movements kept her from hearing him until he stood just behind her. “There’s a grotto just beyond those trees. We can walk there tomorrow if you like.”

  His breath tickled her neck. She closed her eyes, knowing she couldn’t hide any longer. She must do what she’d come here for. Gathering her strength, she leaned into him, enjoying the solid feel of his chest and the steady rhythm of his heart. Gods, just standing there felt so good.

  “I wondered if you’d come tonight. You and your family have much to talk about. They must have questions.”

  A low rumbling chuckle was her answer. “What should I tell them? I’ve been practicing piracy and smuggling with a dash of espionage to spice up my otherwise dull existence?” He took her by the shoulders, spinning her round to face him. “I haven’t volunteered much, and they’ve been remarkably reticent about asking. Afraid of hearing the truth, I’d imagine.”

  The darkness hid his expression. Gwenyth stroked his cheek. “They fear you. You’re a wolf that’s wandered into the fold.”

  He caught her hand and held it tight. His other arm slid around her waist, pulling her against the hard length of his body. “There are those who seem enticed by that notion.”

  “Anabel Woodville,” she answered even as every inch of her caught fire. “She searches for what she can never find. She dreams for something that does not exist.”

  Rafe dropped his head to nuzzle at her neck, sliding his tongue around the curve of one ear. Down the column of her throat and into the valley of her breasts.

  She shivered, her body alive in keen anticipation. Running her fingers through his thick hair, she met his lips in a heated, devouring kiss. Tried to forget long enough to enjoy the wanton demands of her body. The blaze of his mouth against hers. The wicked play of his hands as they moved over her set her heart pounding, flushed her skin with heat.

  Locked together, she felt his need. Sensed his tension in every muscle that brushed against her, but more than that she could not tell. Did he come to make love to her tonight—or was it Anabel he pictured as his hands caressed and teased? And more important, why did this trouble her? She needed only his body, not his heart.

  She wanted to open her mind to touch his thoughts, but he’d sensed her presence before. She dared not pry.

  She should be glad that things played out in such a way. The woman he yearned for once was free again and obviously ready to accept him this time. Rafe could have the life denied him thirteen years ago. It seemed perfect, except for the air of danger she felt. It slithered across her skin like a snake, and made her shudder with repugnance. Was Anabel the cause of this feeling, or was it what she represented? Gwenyth refused to examine these questions too closely. Only sorrow lay in that direction.

  “This yearning makes Lady Woodville restless…and unpredictable,” she added.

  Rafe ran his fingers down the arch of her back. “Anabel wants a knight in shining armor,” he said in a rough whisper. “She doesn’t know my dragon-slaying days are far behind me.”

  His lips traced a path down Gwenyth’s neck to the hollow at the base of her shoulder. His hands clasped her bottom, squeezed and lifted her until he’d settled her against him, on him, the ready bulge at his groin hard between her legs and only a thin layer of fabric away. She gave a shuddering gasp, the blood in her body hot with desire, but still the danger she felt within her could not be stilled.

  “Be careful. She sees your arrival as a challenge.”

  He sighed and raised his head. “Why are we talking about Anabel?”

  Gwenyth tried to remain in control despite the heat pooling at her center with each nudge of his hips against hers. Why, indeed? “You asked for my help in finding a bride,” she managed between the shocks of pleasure racing along every nerve ending.

  He wasn’t doing anything but standing there, and still her body tremored with suspense over what was coming. It knew what it wanted even if Gwenyth fought against the knowledge. It wanted Rafe. Here. Now.

  He cradled her face between his hands. “Can we begin the search tomorrow?” She felt the amusement in his voice as well as his own battle for control. “Right now, I’m happy fulfilling my half of this ridiculous arrangement.”

  Gwenyth answered with a sigh as she rocked against him, smiling at the hiss of his indrawn breath, his sudden tensing. He’d not be thinking of Anabel Woodville tonight. Not if she had anything to do with it.

  She pushed aside the roiling thoughts flitting through her brain like the bats beyond her window, letting Rafe’s hands and mouth lull her into a dream where the past had no power and the future called to her with a promise of love.

  Chapter 14

  Rafe woke before dawn. Drew on his breeches and boots. Shrugged into his shirt. Gwenyth slept, her silver-blond hair fanned out upon the pillow. He smiled as he pushed a tendril away from her face, wishing he could crawl back into bed and rouse her with a kiss and a slow caress. He grew aroused just thinking about the soft, creamy flesh hidden beneath the bedclothes, and he licked his lips, the taste of her still on his tongue. As confident and self-possessed as she was during the day, at night in his arms, she dropped the glamorie, the veil that set her apart and kept everyone at arm’s length. She became a woman ruled by passions rather than prophecy.

  His heart stirred as he watched her sleep. Had he begun a life last night? Had he fulfilled his side of their bizarre agreement? He bent to press a light kiss upon her brow before leaving and prayed to anyone listening that she remained barren. He didn’t think he could bear this homecoming without her beside him.

  Mist hung low over the grass as Rafe started out across the park. It felt good to stretch his legs, and even if the air didn’t carry the bite of ocean spray, it was clean and sharp.

  He rambled with no firm destination in mind. It was enough to be out and alone with his thoughts. Beyond, the forest beckoned, but he kept close to home. Instead, his steps turned to his childhood haunts—the gatehouse lodge, the banks of the river beneath the bridge.

  The summerhouse.

  He slowed, running his hand across the marble baluster. Pulled back the drape of budding roses to duck inside. There were the low, long seats. The table at the center with a bowl of forgotten spring narcissus wilting in the gloom. All as if he’d only left it the night before with Anabel’s betrayal fresh in his mind. Her scathing rejection ringing in his ears. Setting in motion all that had followed.

  What would his life have been if she’d accepted him? Would today have seen him captaining his own ship of the line? Would he have children? Would life have unfolded as he’d once dreamed? He couldn’t imagine Anabel a patient wife, waiting for a husband gone more than he was at home. Or scrimping on half pay when he was ashore. But stranger things had happened. Look at the mad arrangement between him and Gwenyth. That was as strange as they came.

  He left the summerhouse, crossed the hedge to enter the north fields. Followed the track down the hill toward the woods. It wasn’t until he’d passed beneath the first trees that he had an awareness of someone watching him. A pricking of his shoulders. A crawly feeling up the back of his nec
k. He wheeled to his right, plunging into the trees, heart slamming into his throat. A shadow darkened the path. The man was only paces behind. Dark coat, plain hat. Nothing to mark him out as odd. But Rafe knew him. This was Gwenyth’s mystery man.

  Rafe swung around, sliding between the trees, never making a sound. He knew this land. He was on home ground here.

  The man came on, steady but unhurried as if he knew Rafe wouldn’t have strayed too far. Just as he passed, Rafe lunged out, knocking the man off-balance. The two fell to the ground in a tangle of fists and knees.

  He was a scrapper who knew his way around a street brawl. Rafe would give him that. Hands. Fingers. Elbows. Teeth. He fought like the devil. But Rafe had bulk and a determination to end this once and for all. He pinned him to the ground.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Why the hell are you following me?”

  The man spat blood into the dirt, squinting up at him through a blackened eye. “I ain’t following you. Out here for a stroll, and you attacked me. It’s unlawful. Illegal. I’ve a great mind to have you clapped in irons.”

  Rafe refused to be duped, but doubt crept in. Had he been mistaken? Had he lived with danger for so long, that he jumped at shadows? Found threats behind every tree? “Who’s sent you? Answer me.”

  “You let me up, I’ll tell you,” the man grumbled. “I don’t answer questions with someone sitting on my gut.”

  Rafe pulled the man to his feet, though he kept a firm hold of his collar. “All right. Talk. What’s your game?”

  “Name’s Cotter,” the man continued, banging his dusty hat against his thigh. “Visiting my sister in Upper Yewford, I am. I decided to do some fishing. If you like, I can show you my rod and tackle. Left it back at the edge of the woods.” He turned to point back up the trail.

  Rafe’s eyes unconsciously followed Cotter’s directions. That was when he struck. His knee came up in a gut-sucking blow to Rafe’s midsection. As he doubled over, the heel of Cotter’s palm connected with Rafe’s chin, knocking his head back, his neck twinging with spasms. Free, Cotter tore back up the path, out of the trees.