Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  “Isn’t it quicker to get to the village by way of the lane running past the carriage house?” Gwenyth asked as they stepped out onto a shaded, grassy footpath.

  Cecily looked back over her shoulder, a cunning smile on her lips. “It would be if we were actually going to Upper Yewford, but I had a different destination in mind.”

  “Is Mr. Minstead meeting us there, or will he be joining us on the way?” Gwenyth asked.

  Cecily laughed, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “He’s supposed to meet us on the far side of Lisswood Heath. I hope you don’t mind me using you as gooseberry.” Her expression darkened. “Besides, I thought it would be a good time to talk.” Her eyes slid away. “I mean, perhaps you could teach me more Cornish…or something.”

  Gwenyth knew she ought to refuse to accompany Cecily. As she’d told Rafe, she sensed the affection the young man held for Cecily Fleming, but that hardly meant marriage was on his agenda. She would hate to see Cecily hurt in any way. But recalling the Dowager’s constant stream of uncomplimentary comments and not so subtle hints, Gwenyth found it easy to ignore her conscience and her worries. As long as she stayed close, the young woman would come to little trouble.

  They set off, crossing an arched stone bridge before climbing a wooded hill. Clouds covered the sun while a damp breeze plucked at their cotton spencers. The weight of the morning lifted away as Gwenyth breathed the sweet loamy air, the warmth of the day hot upon her face.

  Cecily’s long silence told Gwenyth something weighed heavily on her mind. “And what might be on the far side of Lisswood Heath?” she asked as they topped the hill, looking down upon a wide meadow. Shaggy ponies grazed, flicking their long tails against the early spring flies.

  “There’s a horse-coper there—Mr. Lloyd. Gerald is hoping to buy a new hunter, and he’s asked me to help him.”

  Gwenyth raised her brows in surprise. “You know about choosing a horse?”

  Cecily looked over, a wide smile upon her face. “More than Gerald.”

  As they followed the path down, the ponies turned and disappeared into the trees, a flash of white their last sight of them before entering a shaded grove.

  “My father kept an impeccable stable,” Cecily explained. “He hunted and raced. He spent hours tramping his stables with me trailing him like his shadow.”

  Gwenyth’s look must have transmitted her surprise.

  “My mother dragged me away from all that after my father died. I ride on occasion, but it’s not the same as it was when Father was alive. Mother is,” she frowned, as if choosing her words carefully, “cautious. She worries, which brings on horrid headaches and attacks of nerves. She can take to her bed for days. It’s easier on everyone to humor her.”

  “And if she should find out you’re passing time with Mr. Lloyd?”

  Cecily shrugged. “Mr. Lloyd is quite discreet. He doesn’t agree with my mother’s prohibition on horseflesh, and thinks my father would roll in his grave if he knew I was being denied the stables.”

  Warm with the long walk, Gwenyth asked, “How much farther?”

  “Another few miles. The track we’re on comes out right below Mr. Lloyd’s farm. It’s quite near Campion Hall.”

  Gwenyth cast a sidelong look at Cecily. “Is that important to be knowing?”

  Scarlet spread up Cecily’s neck to stain her cheeks. She dropped her gaze to the path. “It’s the home of the Hilliers,” she mumbled.

  Gwenyth felt the hesitation in Cecily, and thought back to the predatory glitter in Rafe’s eyes as he watched Anabel at the assembly. Had Cecily sensed the same eagerness in her brother that night, or was it something more?

  Cecily stiffened her chin as if she had made up her mind about something. “Miss Killigrew, I know it’s none of my business, and that Derek told me he’d take care of things, but I can’t sit idly by while Lady Woodville makes a fool of you.”

  Gwenyth drew a deep breath, and let it out in a puff of air. “And you’re thinking she’s trying to?”

  “The other night at the ball…Gerald and I…I mean I walked in on Rafe and Lady Woodville…She’s such a horrid woman…Gerald calls her a tragic figure of doomed love. Derek calls her a…well, I’m not supposed to use that sort of language, but you understand my meaning. Anyway, I thought you ought to know so you could…could…” She shrugged.

  Hearing her suspicions confirmed, Gwenyth choked down an angry knot. Her reaction was ridiculous. She and Rafe had a bargain. There was no room for fits of jealousy.

  Cecily watched her with worry. “You’re not mad at me for telling you, are you?”

  Gwenyth managed a weak smile. “No. But if Rafe longs for the likes of Anabel Woodville, I’ll not stand in his way.”

  “But you two are engaged. You love him!”

  Gwenyth focused on the path ahead, refusing to acknowledge that declaration.

  “Don’t you?” Cecily asked in a small voice.

  Gwenyth’s eyes held tight to the gnarled branches and bright new leaves of the trees in front of her, willing the words Cecily had spoken down into the deepest part of her where they couldn’t haunt her with their temptations again. Where they couldn’t tempt a fate that would spell the death of Rafe Fleming.

  Without meeting Cecily’s eyes, Gwenyth repeated, “I’ll not stand in his way.”

  “Onen. Deu. Try. Peswar. Pymp. How was that?” Pride brightened Cecily’s face.

  Gwenyth nodded with approval. “A quick learner, you are. I’ll be having to make my lessons harder.”

  Thankfully, Cecily had let the matter of Rafe and Anabel drop. As they followed a winding stream across an open pasture, Gwenyth’s Cornish lessons carried them through the awkward silence that followed.

  The stream wound between a glade of tall elms. The woods grew dark and still as the path narrowed. Gwenyth felt the ancient trees pressing down upon her, their limbs stretched over the path as if they reached for her. Cecily, too, seemed to sense the tension quivering in the air. Uncertainty creased her face as she scanned the thick woods on either side of them.

  “I smell smoke,” she muttered.

  Gwenyth smelled it too. The heavy, sweet tang of a turf fire.

  “We should go,” Cecily hissed in a frightened whisper. “We need to leave now before they see us. There’s no telling what sort they’ll be.”

  Gwenyth’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What sort who’ll be?”

  Horrible, grunting squeals drowned out Cecily’s answer. The scrubby undergrowth shook as if a gale wind blew, and two enormous hogs broke onto the path in front of them. The animals halted upon seeing the women, their black eyes squinting at them, the bristles upon their backs rigid with fear and anger. Their noses twitched with confusion.

  Cecily’s terror was palpable. It shivered across Gwenyth’s awareness like icy water across her back.

  “Make not a move.” Gwenyth spoke in a calm, soothing tone for both the pigs and Cecily’s benefit. “They’ll move on if we stay calm and make no move to approach them.”

  Cecily nodded.

  The hogs snorted and snuffled, rooting at the low brush.

  “Now what?” Cecily gasped. “We could stand like this all day.”

  Gwenyth felt her tension ease. These hogs seemed bent on little more than feeding. Perhaps she and Cecily could slip around them and be gone before they noticed. “Do you but—”

  A pained shout and a string of curses interrupted Gwenyth’s words. “You filthy, mangy beasties! Come back here a’fore I make bacon and ham out o’ the both o’ you!”

  Chapter 22

  Gwenyth’s gaze followed the sound of the shout, but she saw nothing.

  Cecily nervously bit her lip. “Let’s go, Miss Killigrew. If we hurry, we might pass without notice. The man will be too busy with the pigs to pay us any mind.”

  Gwenyth hesitated. “What is there to be fearing over?”

  “You can never be sure what will happen when you stumble upon one of the foresters. They’re stran
ge folk and keep to themselves.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “In their poverty, many of them fall to plunder or worse.”

  The man’s voice came again, only this time weaker, the threatening tone replaced by a panting grunt of pain. “Devil take it. Ohhh!”

  Gwenyth threw off her caution at the sounds of distress. If the man was a danger to them, so be it. “I’ve never turned my back upon a suffering creature, I’ll not be starting now.” She felt as if her sluggish wits had suddenly awakened, and new strength crackled through her. “Come. Let’s see if he’s needing any help.”

  Cecily’s eyes widened in panic. “The man could be a thief or a murderer…or worse. And I’m to meet Gerald. I can’t—”

  Without waiting, Gwenyth left the path to push into the heavy brush. Barbed vines tore at her gown, but she fought through until she stumbled out into a clearing. A hut of mud and sticks squatted at the far side beneath a stand of trees. Sweet, musky smoke rose from a hole in the roof, and washing lay spread out to dry upon the bushes.

  Gwenyth scanned the clearing where four scraggly chickens scratched in the dust. “Hello!” she called.

  A shadow moved to her right, and she heard the quick drag of a ragged breath. A man lay upon the ground just at the edge of the woods. He wore filthy breeches and a faded and patched military jacket. His hair hung lank and greasy around a gaunt, pinched face. He clutched his lower leg, his dark eyes blazing into hers. As if he were a wounded animal, she cautiously approached him. She saw no weapon, but Cecily’s warning rang loud in her ears.

  “I heard you yell,” she explained. “If you’re hurt, I can be helping you. I’m a healer for my own people.”

  The man never lost his sharp hunter’s gaze, but his body no longer seemed poised for either attack or flight. He spat on the ground and grimaced, showing a mouth of yellowed, rotten teeth. “A saw-bones, you say? And you but a slip of a lass?”

  “I learned the practice from my gran starting when I was old enough to toddle beside her.” She looked around the clearing and smiled. “You mayn’t believe me, but you don’t see anyone else popping out to help you, so you may as well let me look.”

  The man snorted his amusement and spat again. “Verra well. Supposing you can’t do me any more harm than them hogs. It’s my ankle. I think it’s broke. And them sodding hogs took a nip at my hand like. Bleeding a bit, it is.” He held up his right hand. Blood dripped from a wound across his palm. “Woulda’ taken another bite, but Abel Purkiss is a fighter, he is. I beat ’em off with this.” He held up a rusty, battered musket.

  Gwenyth reared back.

  He cracked a hideous smile. “Betsy won’t hurt you, miss. She’s been naught but a hog-beater for a dozen years or more.” Placing the musket down, he grimaced again and reached for his ankle.

  Gwenyth approached and knelt beside him. Pushing aside his hand, she examined his injury.

  Cecily’s voice rang out across the clearing. “Miss Killigrew!”

  Both Gwenyth and Mr. Purkiss looked up, Gwenyth relieved that Cecily had in fact followed her. “Cecily, good, you’re here. This is Mr. Purkiss. He’s taken a spill and had a bad bite from yonder hogs. His ankle’s broken.”

  Two angry red splotches colored Cecily’s cheeks as she watched Gwenyth move her hands expertly over Mr. Purkiss’s swollen leg. Her brows drew up in shock. “I thought you only meant to see what happened. I thought you’d summon help or something. Campion Hall is a short distance…”

  Gwenyth’s lips pursed into a frown. “I can’t simply leave Mr. Purkiss lying in the weeds while I wander about looking for someone to do for me. Come. We can set him by the hut. It’ll be too dark inside to see.” She directed her gaze at Mr. Purkiss. “And I’m thinking I’ll be having a look at that hand.”

  “Suit yourself. Don’t think I could stop you even if I wanted to. I’m done in, and this ankle…” He gave a resigned sigh.

  Gwenyth choked at the power of Mr. Purkiss’s breath. The man smelled as if he’d swallowed a barrel of gin. She gave an idle thought as to whether it was the hogs or his drinking that caused the accident. She motioned Cecily over. “Put your arm under his oxter there. I’ll be getting the other side.”

  Cecily eyed Mr. Purkiss’s grubby body and wrinkled her nose. She looked over her shoulder as if she prayed that someone—anyone might save her from Gwenyth’s order. “Miss Killigrew, surely this…this man will be all right for a short time. We should go on to Mr. Lloyd’s or…or the Hilliers’ and send someone back. What can you and I do all alone?”

  Gwenyth gave a weary shake of her head. “If you think you’d be better moving on, then go. I’ll remain here with Mr. Purkiss. Send someone back for me.” She dropped her shoulder, hooking her arm beneath his to help him rise.

  “Miss Killigrew, I…” Cecily spluttered.

  Impatient and unexplainably disappointed, Gwenyth snapped. “I’ve no time for chatting, Miss Fleming. Go and be quick in your errand!”

  Cecily opened and closed her mouth, her dark eyes bright with moisture. But instead of turning tail and scampering back into the brush, she took a deep breath, puffing it out in a rush of air before kneeling down opposite Gwenyth. Offering Mr. Purkiss a shy smile. “Mama tells me I’ll never get a man if I go on eating the way I do. Does hoisting one over my shoulder count…sir?”

  Cecily sat in the shade of an ancient chestnut tree just beyond the paddock fence. Armed with her easel and paints, she could watch the comings and goings of the grooms and James Coachman and still keep faith with her mother’s instructions to stay away from the stables. She gnawed the end of her paintbrush. Though her eyes rested upon a group of mares and foals let out to enjoy the late afternoon sun, her mind relived the extraordinary events of earlier in the day.

  A shadow fell across her blank page. Squinting upwards, she caught Derek’s amused gaze upon her. “You’re growing careless. Mama will want to see something for your afternoon’s retreat to the paddocks.”

  Cecily flicked the brush in the jar of water and dabbed it into her paint. With a few practiced brushstrokes, she rendered the greening hills beyond the fenceline. “Shall that do?”

  With his doeskin breeches tucked into a pair of well-worn boots, a riding coat of bottle green and a whip clutched casually in one hand, he resembled more the Corinthian than the country vicar. It was no wonder the parishioners of St. Kennets took their problems to the sober, young curate and treated her brother with kingly awe. Derek knelt down to examine the watercolor. “You’ve got a real knack, moppet.” He cast her a suspicious glance. “I ran into Mr. Minstead this morning. He asked if you were feeling unwell.”

  Cecily dropped her paintbrush and took up a tin of cake. Popping a small raisiny piece in her mouth, she did her best to seem unconcerned. “Oh yes?”

  “I’m afraid he looked a bit put out when I told him you looked healthy enough at breakfast. He said you meant to meet him at Lloyd’s.” When Cecily kept silent, Derek shook his head. “Cec, Mother will have you bound to your bed should she catch you in company with both Gerald Minstead and horses.”

  “Well, I didn’t meet him, did I?” Both flattered and worried that Gerald was annoyed with her for missing their rendezvous, she smothered her concerns in another yeasty sweet bite of cake. “Mama has no cause for alarm and you have no reason to scold. I was out walking with Miss Killigrew all morning. We didn’t arrive home until well after luncheon.”

  Derek cocked a curious brow, new interest kindled in his blue eyes. “All morning long? What on earth kept you so enamored of Miss Killigrew’s company you wanted to spend more than five minutes with her?”

  Cecily leaned forward, the painting and the cake forgotten in her excitement. “Oh, Derek, it was amazing! Gwenyth and I stumbled upon a forester near Lisswood Heath.” When Derek’s face grimmed, Cecily plunged on, “The poor man had broken his ankle and been set on by hogs. Gwenyth bound the man’s ankle as well as any surgeon ever could. She’s a healer, Derek. Isn’t that wonderful? She wo
rks as a skilled nurse and midwife in Kerrow. It’s her family’s calling, and she hopes to pass on the knowledge to her own daughter some day.”

  An amused flicker danced in the backs of Derek’s eyes. “I wonder if Rafe knows. I can just see the wealthy owner of Swiverton Park chasing his wife from hovel to hovel as she dispenses medicines and delivers babies.”

  Cecily was stung by the sarcasm in Derek’s voice. “You should give her a chance. I think we’ve misjudged her. She’s not the uneducated, crude peasant you and Mama and Brampton have thought. She’s resourceful and courageous and wise. She’s proud and passionate about her knowledge of medicine.”

  Derek put up his hands in surrender. “Enough. I’m suitably chastised. Miss Killigrew has found herself quite a champion in you. I haven’t seen you this infatuated since well…since Mr. Minstead.”

  Cecily’s shoulders drooped. “Was he horribly upset?”

  “He was in company with Anabel and her mother so his emotions remained tempered by good manners, but I’d say mildly frustrated. He began to wax poetic over your wan and pale features. I’m afraid I beat a rather hasty retreat.”

  Cecily laughed as she slapped at his leg in annoyance. “He’s not like that at all. He’s brooding and thoughtful. He ponders the beauty of things. You all dislike him because he won’t gamble with you or hunt with Brampton or cringe beneath Mama’s tongue.”

  Derek tapped his whip against his boot, an unusual look of remorse on his face. “I’m sorry, moppet. It would seem we’re guilty of gross misjudgment. First Gerald and then Miss Killigrew. I can’t speak for the rest of the family, but I’ll try to see the better points of both.”