Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  “You and I are engaged to be married,” Rafe argued.

  A sad smile tipped the corner of her mouth. “Saying it over and over doesn’t make it so.”

  His sudden rise opened her eyes. He stood over her, his gaze fierce. “And denying it over and over doesn’t erase what we do have between us. Dreams are not reality, Gwenyth, and sometimes we need to risk a loss in order to gain what’s truly precious.”

  A lump formed in Gwenyth’s throat, and her eyes burned with angry tears. “I’ve learned the hard way the power and the truth of dreams. The threat is too great.”

  Rafe swung away from her with a growl of disagreement, striding back the way they’d come. She thought he might keep going and leave her there alone, but at the curve of the hedge, he left the path. Shoving his way through the tangled branches of the willows, he walked down to the shore and threw himself upon the ground. Yanked off his boots and tossed his coat aside. Rising, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a ripple of sun-bronzed muscles from years upon the sea.

  Gwenyth’s breathing shallowed as he stood for a moment watching her, watching her reaction to him. After a moment, he dropped his shirt onto the growing pile. Before Gwenyth could shout or stand or gather her roiling thoughts, he threw her a defiant, furious glare and dove in.

  He came up, tossing his hair from his face with a jerk of his head. Treading water for a moment, he ducked back under. Moments passed, and the surface of the lake stilled, the ripples from his passing mixing with the spill from the waterfall. Gwenyth waited for him to reappear, each second counted off to the rapid beat of her heart. Ten…twenty…thirty…and still no sign of him.

  She rocked up on her knees and leaned forward, trying to see through the murky dark of the water. Her heart banged against her chest, and she clenched her hands in the folds of her skirt. Her dream—the image of the man fighting for his life beneath the sea flashed into her head. Her mouth grew dry as she kept up the steady counting. Forty-five…fifty-five…sixty!

  Like a seal, he broke the surface of the lake just beyond the reach of her arm, scattering drops around her like rain. She gasped and sat back, panic subsiding beneath a nervous anger. “You frightened me near to death with your sport!”

  “I’ve not lost it. A full minute before I had to come up for air, and hardly winded.” He laughed. “Not bad for a moldy thirty-three-year-old.”

  “Do you always go about scaring folks like that? I’d visions of you drowning or caught beneath the water and…” She knew she sounded like a fusty old besom, but couldn’t keep the anger from her voice as she wrapped her arms across her body.

  His smile faded as he swam to the ledge and hoisted himself up on the rocks beside her. Water sluiced off him, running down his chest, puddling upon the ledge, throwing the dark swirl of the tattoed butterfly’s outspread wings into brilliant relief. His earring glittered against the dark tan of his cheek.

  He put a hand out to cradle her face. “I’m all right, Gwenyth. It’s a trick—just a trick. Nothing more.”

  She moved into his caress, letting his cold, wet fingers cool her burning skin. “I know that now, and to be honest, I knew it then, but the vision…the man…he’s as real to me as you are.” She ground her teeth. “I hate this.”

  “You’re shaking.”

  Gwenyth clenched her hands tighter across her. “And you’re the one sitting here half-naked and dripping wet.” When he made no sign of dropping his hand, she gave him a game smile. “I’m fine, truly.”

  Rafe’s eyes sought hers out, their irises dark as the lake water. Seeming to ignore her words, he leaned forward, covering her mouth with his own. What started as gentle grew in power until the devouring passion of his kiss knotted her insides, burning through her like fresh caught tinder. The trembling in her limbs changed from dread to excitement with each teasing pass of his lips. Reaching up, he pulled out her combs, releasing a heavy fall of hair across her shoulders.

  “Rafe,” she whispered into his open mouth, a hand poised to push him away.

  He chose that moment to slide his tongue between her teeth, his hot breath and deepening seduction quickly overcoming her common sense.

  A voice broke them apart like guilty children.

  “Walking is the best thing for pregnancy. My sister has had five children, and she managed three miles a day until her last weeks.”

  Anabel rounded the hedge, a pale green dress of filmy muslin accenting her tidy auburn curls. Spying them, she paused, her cat’s eyes narrowing slightly, her small white teeth frozen in the rictus of a smile.

  Heat flooded Gwenyth’s face, but she refused to lower her eyes or bundle her hair back into order as if she were ashamed.

  “Lady Woodville?” a voice questioned from beyond the curve. Sophia lumbered around the corner, a hand coming to her mouth as she spotted Rafe and Gwenyth. “Oh my,” she muttered, though her eyes danced with mischief.

  Anabel seemed to gather herself together. She laughed as she approached. “Have we interrupted something?”

  “Yes,” Rafe said, throwing dagger glances at the two women.

  But Gwenyth merely shook her head as she backed out of Rafe’s arms. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but she breathed deeply as she fought the unbidden thoughts his attentions created.

  She laughed, hoping neither woman heard the shakiness of her voice. “The man took it in his head to be swimming.”

  “I was explaining to Gwenyth how they fish for food in the islands off India,” Rafe lied.

  Anabel’s eyes slanted slyly. “Oh? Do tell. Perhaps a demonstration for us all?”

  She swept her gaze over his bare, muscled chest and shoulders as if she sized up a bullock calf. The obvious invitation behind it made Gwenyth squirm with unease. She felt Rafe tense beneath Anabel’s examination.

  “I’ve always been fascinated by native traditions,” Anabel added.

  Rafe uncurled himself from the ledge. “Of course. If you insist.” He held out a hand. “Come, Sophia. Make yourself comfortable. You look as if you carry the weight of the world.”

  “Just the weight of the Fleming family’s future.”

  Sophia laughed, but Gwenyth frowned at the pallor of the viscountess’ face and the perspiration shining her brow.

  Rafe crossed to help Sophia navigate the grotto’s unsteady rocks.

  Anabel gasped as he passed by, her eyes focused upon Rafe’s back, her face draining of color. “Ranulf! Dear God!”

  Rafe froze, his fingers just touching Sophia’s outstretched palm. “Don’t you like my tattoo?” he asked casually.

  Anabel didn’t answer. Instead she put out her hand to caress the scarred flesh of his back.

  He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. “The Royal Navy is nothing if not thorough,” he scoffed. “And they have little tolerance for mutineers and those who attempt murder. I’m only sorry I didn’t finish the job.”

  Rafe’s fury smashed its way into Gwenyth’s consciousness. His despair burrowing past her mental barriers until she ached with a shared pain. But beneath both these emotions, lurked another. Tattered and faded as old cloth, it remained despite the years that had passed.

  Gwenyth’s gaze traveled between Rafe and Anabel, teeth-chattering cold seeping deep into her bones once more. For she knew all too well that desire was a dangerous emotion. And despite the head’s best intentions, the heart was difficult to deny.

  Rafe’s eyes snapped open upon the black emptiness above his bed. His gaze still lingering inward where a frigate lay at anchor, a line of marines at attention upon her foredeck. He still felt the burning heat of the cat upon his back and heard the endless beating of the drum in his ears. In his dream, he’d cried out. Had his shout carried over to his waking? All remained quiet. In fact, the ship was strangely tranquil, no clank of the pump, no slap of water against her sides.

  He ran a hand through his hair. It lay damp against his forehead, and sweat dripped down his cheek. It took a minute or two for t
he nightmare to lose its potency and the reality of his dark, silent room to penetrate his senses. The Cormorant was no longer. This was Bodliam. He was home. He was safe. He was alone.

  His skin pebbled in the chill air from his open window. He rose and, throwing a dressing gown over his nakedness, padded to the door. The house was still, everyone long since retired. He’d not expected to sleep so long or so deeply, but now that he was awake, all he wanted was Gwenyth, the slide of her silky flesh, the hot sweet taste of her mouth, the soft brush of her hair across his chest. He knew she would banish the last tattered shreds of his dream.

  Feeling his way down the darkened corridor, his groin tightened with need as his heart floundered in his chest. He laughed at his inexplicable confidence in Gwenyth’s ability to turn aside his memories. She knew the power of dreams, she said. If anyone could blunt the cold, hard edges of his past, it was Gwenyth.

  He stopped in front of her door, checking up and down the corridor in case someone might be watching. In the eyes of the house, they were engaged, but that didn’t mean they would countenance midnight visits to her chamber. If they found him sampling before the ceremony, matters could get difficult when the inevitable occurred and the tie was severed. He wanted no complications like a misplaced sense of Fleming noblesse oblige binding him to her once the two of them had completed their arrangement.

  He turned the knob, but nothing happened. He pushed against the paneled door, but no amount of force could change the fact that Gwenyth Killigrew had locked him out.

  On the other side of the door, Gwenyth sat up against the headboard, arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs. Listening as Rafe struggled with the lock, and even whispered her name, but she never moved.

  Brazenly, she had thought herself strong enough to take what she needed from Rafe, and never risk a deeper entanglement. This afternoon had been a warning to her. Events began to spin out of her control. If she would free herself from this place and this man without further pain, she needed to tread carefully, as if she walked a treacherous cliff’s edge.

  After a few minutes, Rafe retreated. Gwenyth pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes as she took a deep breath. Rafe Fleming had woven his way into her life. It was up to her to make sure the threads bound her no tighter.

  Chapter 16

  “It’s a dinner, but Mother’s hired a fiddler from the village so we may have dancing later.”

  Gwenyth let Cecily ramble. It allowed her space to think without having to do much more than nod occasionally. She sat in her bedchamber, still in her shift and dressing gown, watching the park’s lengthening shadows. The way the black outline of trees stretched up into the purpling evening sky.

  “She’s invited the Hilliers, of course,” Cecily prattled in between bites of an apple. “They’re our closest neighbors. But that means Gerald will come. She’d not slight their guest no matter how much she dislikes him.”

  Gwenyth barely heard her. Instead, the sound of Rafe’s laughter echoed through her head. The soft murmur of his voice as it whispered to her in the night. The harsh echo of old pain whenever his past was mentioned. All sides of the same man. And all drew her like a moth to a flame. If only she had the courage to tempt the future. But yesterday’s visit to the grotto had reinforced the dream’s power. A painful taste of what she knew would follow if she allowed her heart to stray.

  She looked back over her shoulder at the damask bed hangings, the satins, the linens, the gilded furniture. And then there was the small problem of all this finery. Lord Mark’s daughter or not, she wasn’t made for the elegant trappings of a highborn life. She didn’t belong here. But Rafe did. It was his world.

  “What will you wear tonight?” Cecily broke in. “The green is nice. A bit plain, but suitable.”

  Cecily’s chatter grew too much. Gwenyth’s head ached from crown to shoulders. She wanted silence. To be alone. “Would you be minding very much?” she began.

  Cecily smiled. “I know. I talk too much. A nervous habit.” She pulled a face as she hopped off the bed, pocketing the apple core. “Along with the eating. You’ll be lovely in anything.”

  Once she was gone, Gwenyth closed her eyes, but the man’s face swam before her. His struggles in the raging sea. His desperation as the storm pushed him farther from help. His panic as he was pulled beneath the waves. Only now the man had a face. Now he stared up at the boiling sky with eyes of a clear gray-green just before the waters claimed him. Now he was Rafe.

  Her throat burned. And she swiped at tears with a sleeve. “You won’t take him like that,” she whispered into the night beyond her window, knowing that He would hear and understand. “I’m stronger than fate. Stronger than you.”

  Rafe’s jaw ached from biting his tongue. That was the kind of night it had been.

  If Edmund had asked one more baited question or Sir Henry had slanted one more contemptuous leer in Gwenyth’s direction, he’d not have been liable for the violence to follow. Sophia tried, Lord love her, but not even her serene good humor could draw the sting from the rest of the guests.

  Gwenyth seemed immune to the swirl of emotion, though he knew she must feel the animosity from all sides. She remained as poised and confident as a queen, only the snap in her eyes a hint of what lay beneath the calm exterior.

  The fiddler performed a few tuning runs as the curate’s wife practiced her scales in preparation for the dancing. Anabel had been stalking him all night with her eyes, a small mocking smile playing around her mouth each time their gazes locked. He itched to erase it from her face.

  The sets were formed. The plodding tune carrying them through the dance with mincing, indifferent steps. Gwenyth’s hand was cool, her face almost masklike as she went through the motions. As she was passed between Edmund, Sir Henry, the robust, young curate and back to him.

  “You’re not enjoying yourself?”

  “None of us are,” she answered, glancing around at the other dancers. “Or should I say, almost none of us.” She directed a soft gaze in Cecily’s direction.

  His sister held close to Minstead with a puppylike air. Rafe hoped for her sake, the man wasn’t the simpering fop he seemed.

  Gwenyth chose to sit out the next dance. He tried coaxing her back onto the floor, but she pulled away with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  “Don’t pester the woman, Ranulf,” his mother scolded. “No doubt, she’s unfamiliar with the intricate figures of the quadrille. Why not ask Anabel? She’s always been an accomplished dancer, and she’d like nothing better than to tread a measure with you.” She smiled through a shine of happy tears. “It would be like old times.”

  With this not-so-subtle hint, Rafe was trapped.

  Anabel offered him a coy look as he took her hand. “It’s not likely you had much time for dancing either, Rafe. Too busy amassing your mysterious fortune.”

  “No mystery. I know exactly how I made it,” he snapped, tired of the innuendo and the manipulation.

  But Anabel remained unfazed. “Don’t scowl. You can’t still hold the blown-up conceit of a schoolgirl against me.”

  “It’s not the old rejection that has me questioning. It’s the recent attention.”

  The steps separated them, but as they joined hands once again, she leaned in close. “We have a past, Rafe. One I’d love to rekindle.”

  Her full, pouty lips curled as she shifted, giving him a look at what could be his if he wanted it. She was beautiful, her body made for seductions. Thirteen years had only ripened her perfection.

  His eyes flicked up to meet Gwenyth’s. In her face, he read clear mistrust and doubt. But not so plain was another emotion, a darkening of her gaze as Anabel remained beside him after the dance ended. Could it be she was jealous?

  “I’ll be at the assembly next week. Perhaps we can renew our acquaintance there,” Anabel murmured, her hand placed possessively on his forearm.

  “You forget, Lady Woodville,” he said, freeing himself. “I’m betrothed.”

 
; “But to the wrong woman, Rafe.” Her laugh echoed shrilly.

  But from what he could see, it was the only cheer in the room. Even Mr. Minstead’s face held a stony petulance as he stood woodenly beside Cecily.

  Rafe’s chest and shoulders tightened. His head pounded from drink and evasion. This evening was a failure bordering on catastrophe.

  His thoughts fell back on the last time he’d danced. The wild celebration on the Kerrow headland. The leaping flames. A night studded with stars and a moon so big, it seemed to fill the sky. The wash of joy in every ruddy, glowing face. Gwenyth’s laughter.

  He missed the laughter. Home was not how he’d remembered it.

  “I’m sorry to have made you endure such a horrible evening.”

  Rafe slipped into her room so quietly Gwenyth hadn’t even heard the latch rise. She jumped, fumbling with her brush, her heart shooting into her throat. The man prowled like a cat. No doubt part of the reason he’d fared so well at his trade.

  Recovered, she pulled her hair free of its pins and brushed it until it crackled.

  “You’re angry with me.” He crossed to stand right behind her so that his face was visible in the mirror.

  “So now you’re reading thoughts, are you?” she sniped. “It’s a wonder you’re needing me at all. Mayhap, I should go. It’s seeming you’ve found the woman you want.”

  A smile lit his eyes. “I thought so.”

  “You thought what? I’ve warned you, Rafe. She’s not to be trusted.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  She slammed the brush down on the dressing table. Wheeled around to face him. “Jealous? Of that pin-nosed, cow-breasted gold grubber? Not bloody likely.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  Appalled, Gwenyth threw herself at him, covering his mouth. “Whisht! You’ll be waking the house. They’ll find you here.”