Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  Rafe threw himself after him, but the man had speed as well as strength. He was halfway across the field by the time Rafe made it to the wood’s edge, and completely swallowed by cover after no more than a few minutes of chase.

  Bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving, Rafe watched him disappear. Who the hell was he? And what did he want?

  A thought crossed his mind. Like a ghost of a shadow, it plagued him, but it was too soon to know. He only prayed he was wrong.

  If he thought coming home had been difficult so far, this would make it damn near impossible.

  Gwenyth rose, her body singing with the faint echoes of Rafe’s lovemaking. Nothing had prepared her for what he released in her with every caress. No gift she carried within her body gave her as much pleasure as the touch of his lips or the soft lingering stroke of his fingers. She buried these feelings beneath a hard layer of common sense that told her these thoughts boded nothing but ill. There was no future with Rafe Fleming. There was nothing for her there but grief. Only if she kept her head and refused her heart, could she come away unscathed.

  Weary, but successful in grounding the wild dreams threatening to overwhelm her, she tried to dress. But no matter what position she twisted her body into, she couldn’t manage to tie the offending tapes at the back of her gown. Frustrated and giving rein to the bitterness in her heart, Gwenyth cursed as she tried once more with no success. “Dampnya! Why on earth do they be making these gokki things with no way of putting one on without an army of servants?”

  “Miss? Miss? Can I help you?”

  Gwenyth heard the voice, but in her agitation didn’t answer.

  “Mestres? I said, can I help you?” This time the words came in Cornish.

  Gwenyth whirled around, eyes wide with shock. “Soenno dhymm! Bless me, I haven’t heard any speak the tongue since leaving home. What’s your name?”

  The maid bobbed a quick curtsey. “Nellie, Mestres. Lady Brampton sent me to help you.”

  Gwenyth took the maid by the hands and drew her into the chamber, ignoring her anxious looks. “You’re from Cornwall?”

  Nellie nodded, answering her in the same language. “From Falmouth, miss, though my ma came from the west. She’s the one taught me the Cornish.” Withdrawing her hands, she deftly took charge of Gwenyth’s willful tapes as well as the row of buttons upon her sleeves and the lace at her hem and collar. “It’s good to speak it after so long.”

  Gwenyth forgot herself in the joy of having a small piece of home handed her like a treasure. Though few spoke the language—even in Kerrow only Jago and a few doddering ancients—it represented her world. A world growing fainter with each passing day spent so far from it. “A gift from the gods, you are. I’ve been fiddling with this silly piece of frippery for a half-hour. Durdallody’hwi. Thank you.”

  Nellie nodded and ushered Gwenyth to her dressing table. With a few brushstrokes, a well-placed comb or two, and a handful of pins, she swept Gwenyth’s thick hair into a stylish chignon rivaling anything seen on Sophia or Anabel Woodville.

  Gwenyth smiled her thanks into the mirror. “You’ve managed to turn a peasant girl into a princess. They’ll be thinking I’m putting on airs.”

  “You’re most welcome, Mestres. I feel as if I’ve had a visit home without stepping beyond the door,” Nellie said, echoing Gwenyth’s thoughts. She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Bless you. Dursoenno dhis, Mestres.”

  Her eyes suspiciously bright, she dashed from the room, nearly bowling Cecily Fleming over on her way out.

  Cecily held a half-eaten piece of toast, red jam already staining the collar of her gown. “What was Nellie saying just now? It sounded like a foreign language.”

  Gwenyth cast a glance at Cecily’s curious eyes and firm chin, so like Rafe’s in its stubborn set. This young woman was more perceptive than anyone in the house suspected. She must warn Rafe. If anyone were to find out the truth about them, she had a feeling it would be Cecily.

  “Speaking the Cornish, she was.”

  Cecily settled upon the same chair as yesterday. She showed no hesitation in making herself at home, invited or not. “Is it like Gaelic or Welsh or something?”

  “A bit like both and not at all like either.”

  Cecily sat forward, her gaze eager. “Could you teach me? I know French, German and some Italian. I can even say a few things in Spanish. We had a gardener from Seville. Please, could you teach me Cornish?”

  Gwenyth raised a questioning brow. “Why would you be wanting to know such things? You’ve no one to even speak it to.”

  “You’ll be here to speak it to.”

  Gwenyth took a steadying breath, hoping the girl was wrong. The past minutes had shown Gwenyth how much she wanted to flee to the refuge of Kerrow and the life she had chosen to abandon. She must find Rafe Fleming a woman quick and escape before it was too late.

  Rafe found Gwenyth wandering up and down the stable’s wide aisles, reaching to pat a stretched-out nose or scratch behind an ear. Dressed in a stylish gown of cloud-gray that matched her eyes, she stepped regally as a queen between the barrows of soiled straw, leaning forks and shovels, and buckets of water lined up for distribution among the loose boxes.

  The grooms allowed her peace to enjoy the horses, but Rafe caught the appreciative eyes and knowing nudges between the men as they went about their chores. For some reason, their admiration didn’t pique him as had the hungry glances of the village men of Kerrow. Instead pride swelled his chest, and he found himself savoring the knowledge that she belonged to him—at least for a little while.

  He thought about confessing to his confrontation this morning. Asking her opinion. But if his hunch was right—No, it was best to let it lie. Cotter and his associates were his worry. His problem.

  Gwenyth spoke without looking up to see who approached. “I’d a feeling you’d be here sooner or later.”

  Her words might have discomfited someone unfamiliar with her unnatural gifts, but Rafe merely smiled. “My mother stopped me to let me know about the ball in Carrisbridge next week.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance of amusement. “Is she fearing I’ll cast a cloud over your triumphant homecoming? Mayhap eat with my fingers or dance upon the tabletops?”

  Rafe laughed as he took her elbow, leading her toward the curricle, even now being readied for them. “I believe you never entered her mind. She thinks it shall take only one look at the eligible young ladies of her acquaintance and you’ll be sent packing back to your village.”

  Gwenyth took a deep breath. “She’s no idea how right she is. The women shall be thick as heath upon the ground. Perhaps my task won’t be so hard after all.”

  Rafe quashed the flash of anger at Gwenyth’s eagerness as he helped her into the carriage. Seating himself next to her, he warned her to hold tight, shouted the grooms to stand away from the horses’ heads, and flicked the ribbons as he chirruped to the beautiful matched bays. With a grunt of satisfaction, he heard her quick cry of alarm as they circled the yard and bowled out along the avenue. But by the time they’d reached the park’s boundaries, he’d put aside his momentary resentment, and she’d settled back to enjoy the rush of speed.

  Rafe turned onto a side road, a long shaded avenue of birch trees. Pulled the horses back to a slow trot, allowing Gwenyth to look about her without fear of being jounced from her seat. Rolling parkland stretched to either side of them, the house slipping in and out of view between the stands of ash and elm, hazel and hawthorn. Kestrels called klee-klee-klee as they dipped and soared above the open fields scented with early blooming wild thyme.

  Passing into a shaded copse of beeches, the light dimmed to a filmy green, and the air cooled. The Lady Wood stretched between the edge of Bodliam’s park down to a shallow river bottom, the river now little more than a narrow stream. They crossed a low stone bridge, the current below them flashing silver beneath the arched stonework.

  Turning out onto the road, Rafe twitched the ribbons and the curricle sprang fo
rward. Gwenyth grabbed for her bonnet, but when he glanced her way, her eyes shone with delight. In moments they passed into the village. For Rafe, it was like stepping back in time. Nothing about the rows of cottages, the crooked lanes or the open, ruddy country faces had changed in all the years he had been gone.

  “Well?” Rafe gestured toward the men and women crowding the main road and gathered upon the green. His gaze scanned them, wondering if he’d spy the mysterious Mr. Cotter. But he was disappointed. None among them were the dark man from the woods.

  Gwenyth arched a brow in question. “Am I supposed to be finding you a bride like I’d be picking out a ripe melon?”

  Rafe brought the horses down to a walk. He shot her a teasing glance. “You mean the otherworldly Sight of the Witch of Kerrow can’t manage a trifling matter like finding a needle in a haystack?”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he glanced ahead. Across the road, standing in front of the grocers with her arm upon a young man’s sleeve, was Cecily. They weren’t alone. Two young women stood with them. Dressed in stylish gowns, their hair in modish ringlets beneath chip straw bonnets, they chattered and gossiped like magpies. The bored expression on the young man’s face told Rafe that much.

  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.

  Chapter 15

  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.”