Dangerous Magic

by Alix Rickloff

  Gwenyth didn’t want Lord Brampton’s thanks or his payment, which he tried to press upon her. She left the room with a headache blossoming behind her eyes. She’d done what her nature demanded she do. It was no more than she’d done for Sarah Landry, or anyone asking for her aid. Being a midwife meant she brought forth life into the world, and working as a healer meant that once that life burned brightly, she fought for its survival with all her skill. The Dowager, Sophia, not even Cecily truly understood that about her. Perhaps, not even Rafe.

  Remembering Dr. MacNeil’s solid strength and the spark of affinity that passed between them, she knew he, out of everyone, might empathize. Her heart eased. Sophia and Simon would be in good hands when she left. This man would make certain of that.

  Returning to her room, she sank upon the bed. Pain lanced her head, and a gnawing ache clutched at her stomach. She knew it wasn’t the child causing it, but Rafe’s departure. She felt his presence fading; the ties between them stretched thin as spider’s silk. Their last harsh words would be their final parting.

  With a heavy sigh, she rose. As she drew her cloak up off a chair, her gaze fell upon a rolled bundle tied with silver ribbon lying hidden beneath. Her heart lurched and a gasp caught in her throat as she recognized the prayer rug. With trembling hands, she released the ribbon and unrolled the tapestry flat upon the bed.

  Morvoren’s handi-work had been pieced together, each section sewn into place with some of the neatest stitches she’d ever seen. A note was pinned to the center black square. Gwenyth had no need to read the words to know who had bent his sailor’s skills with canvas sail to the delicate work of repairing her rug. Plucking the paper from the center square, she felt a shivering spark race up her arm. She laughed with joyous relief while reading the words through eyes blurry with hot tears.

  Remember me with kindness, if you can. I only wish I could repair our time together as easily.

  Rafe.

  Gwenyth could no longer deny the truth set before her. Rafe’s life was bound to hers; his fate was bound to hers. Anabel’s words echoed in her head: to have the courage to risk all.

  Did she have that courage?

  A knock from behind made her start with wild excitement, but spinning around, she saw it was only Cecily. Her troubled eyes traveled over Gwenyth’s cloak and valise before noticing the weaving. She rushed forward. “Your prayer rug? What happened?”

  Gwenyth rubbed her hand across the repaired tapestry, surprised to find herself following the new seams in much the same way she’d traced the scars upon Rafe’s back. “’Twas a fortunate accident for it’s forced me to see things clearly at the last.”

  Cecily’s gaze moved to Gwenyth. She frowned, biting on her thumb. “Rafe rode out an hour ago.” She cast a sidelong glance at the valise. “And I suppose I’m not surprised you’re on your way as well. If you’re bent on leaving, there’s a wagon for Carrisbridge being readied in the kitchen yard. It will save you a long walk.”

  Gwenyth flashed her a warm, grateful smile. In the short time she’d spent here, she’d seen Cecily Fleming grow from a petulant child to a confident woman. Gwenyth spared a sympathetic thought for Mr. Minstead. There was no doubt in her mind he’d soon find he took on more than he knew. What would happen then was anyone’s guess, but she imagined it would be interesting to watch.

  “Mother and Anabel have been taking tea downstairs.” Cecily’s eyes burned, her chin jutting at a mulish angle. “I wish that horrible she-cat would just leave us all alone!”

  A knot twisted in Gwenyth’s heart as she stilled the wild hopes fired by the tapestry’s restoration. Nothing had been resolved. Rafe had left intending to wed Anabel Woodville, and Gwenyth had confessed to Anabel that her relationship with Rafe was at an end. What could she say now to even begin to untangle the mess she’d created? Or should she leave well enough alone now that she and Rafe had broken so completely? Did his repair of the tapestry mean that perhaps their relationship might be mended as well?

  Trying to keep the desperation from her voice, she asked, “Do you know where Rafe has gone? I’ve got to see him, got to speak with him before…” She couldn’t bear to even say the words.

  A sparkling smile lit Cecily’s face. “I don’t, but Derek may. He and Rafe spent all morning closeted together in Brampton’s study.” Cecily grabbed Gwenyth by the hand and dragged her toward the door. “Come with me. I think I saw Derek headed toward the stables.”

  Gwenyth threw her a warning look as she allowed Cecily to take charge. “I thought you weren’t allowed in the stables.”

  Cecily grinned. “If I have my way, Mama shall have to accept many changes. A trip to the stables will soon be the least of her worries.”

  “No, I don’t know where Rafe has gone.” Derek relaxed against the paddock fence, his elbows resting upon the top rail. “He only told me he meant to end in London, not where he planned on heading first. And he’d no idea when he might be back. Unfinished business, he said.”

  He twirled his crop idly in one hand, but Gwenyth noted the shadows clouding his eyes and the taut lines sharpening his jaw. He may not know everything, but Rafe had revealed enough to cause him concern.

  “Take her to London with you, Derek!” Cecily pleaded, frustration and hurry coloring her face.

  Derek started, dropping his crop. “Now look here, Cec—”

  Cecily hurtled on, refusing to be calmed. “You know the City! Take Gwenyth to find Rafe. She’s got to speak to him before Anabel does.”

  Derek plowed a hand through his hair, letting out his breath in a whoosh. “I can’t just rattle off to the City with my brother’s betrothed. Just being seen once in my company unchaperoned would ruin her.”

  Cecily jumped with inspiration. “You’re a vicar. Surely a man of the Church could—”

  Derek gave a rough bark of laughter. “Have you forgotten my reputation, Cec? The devil’s vicar, they call me, and you know it. It’s best if Miss Killigrew waits here for Rafe’s return.” His troubled eyes looked beyond them to the empty avenue as if wishing he saw Rafe’s horse approaching between the trees. “And he damn well better come back this time.”

  He muttered the words beneath his breath, but Gwenyth stood close enough to understand. His fear held more than the pain of memory. This was a new worry shrouding his expression.

  “Then Gwenyth shall go without you!” Cecily declared hotly. “Or…or I shall go with her.”

  Derek leaned forward and tweaked one of Cecily’s curls. “Don’t be daft, moppet. Mother and Brampton would never allow you to go off with me.”

  “But there must be a way,” she wailed, almost frantic.

  Derek silenced her with a sympathetic pat while Gwenyth stood puzzling over what to do. To remain at Bodliam was no answer. She couldn’t stand one more day in the house. Too much unhappiness had passed beneath its roof for her to ever again feel comfortable within its grand and lofty rooms. But going to London seemed equally impossible. Mayhap ask her to travel to the moon.

  Before leaving Kerrow for Hampshire, she’d never been farther away from home than Penzance. And she’d not the funds to undertake such a trip. Food, lodgings and coach fare alone would be more than she could earn in a year. And how long would it take to find Rafe? If the city were so huge, she might never find him, even did she have an idea of where to look—which she hadn’t.

  She sighed. “I can see nothing for it but to go home as I intended.”

  “But you love him! I heard you,” Cecily insisted. When Gwenyth raised an eyebrow in question, Cecily continued, “The night you argued, I was there. I didn’t mean to spy, but I heard you. You can’t deny that you care for him.”

  Gwenyth shook her head. “I won’t refute it now, though I’ve done so for weeks on end. I love your brother with all my heart. If that spells disaster, so be it.”

  Derek broke in. “When he returns, Miss Killigrew, we’ll tell him. Cecily and I both shall make him see. He’ll come to you in Cornwall.”

/>   Gwenyth nodded in grateful acceptance. “And Lady Woodville?”

  Derek offered her a demon grin. “I told you once I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy. That’s still the case, but I can think of someone who definitely possesses all the right attributes for our narcissistic neighbor. Anabel shall come through all this better than she deserves, and we’ll be free of them—I mean her—at last.”

  Gwenyth caught the mischievous gleam in his blue eyes and bit her lip to stifle the bubble of mirth that welled within her. For the first time since meeting Rafe, she felt that fate just might turn her way.

  Chapter 32

  Rafe was shown to a private parlor above the Angel Inn’s main taproom. The bustling inn on the Strand was a familiar place. He’d been here twice before to meet with DeWinter and once with the Duke himself. Always he had the feeling he was being watched, the many pairs of eyes scanning him with veiled interest from behind papers and pipes. A chilling glance and a glimpse of the well-handled hilt of his cutlass was usually enough to make them turn away.

  The parlor held a table and chairs as well as a long cushioned settle pulled close to a cold hearth. Weak light spilled across the carpets from a pair of long windows. It was clear DeWinter had been waiting for some time. The remains of a lunch were still upon the table along with not one but two empty bottles of claret. With that much tossed back, he wondered if the man was capable of standing on his own, much less explaining why Rafe had been drawn here like a puppet on a string.

  DeWinter stood, his back to the room, eyes trained on the view beyond the window. He made no move to show that he noticed Rafe’s arrival. Rather, DeWinter pressed his forehead to the grimy glass. Clutching his ruined arm, he took a shaky breath as if the limb pained him still. Despite his jokes, the loss of the arm seemed a grief too much to bear.

  Rafe cleared his throat. “I’ve come.”

  DeWinter whirled around, dark eyes crackling with a murderous fire as if he hated anyone to catch him in such a despondent mood. “Fleming, good of you to answer our summons. I’d have hated to drag you here in manacles.”

  Rafe’s momentary sympathy for the colonel was swiftly snuffed, replaced by a simmering anger. “At your own risk.”

  The colonel gestured to one of the chairs.

  Rafe moved forward into the room but ignored the offer, preferring to stand and face his tormentor.

  DeWinter noted the rebuff and shrugged. “Your rabble has been a thorn in the side of the Board of Customs for years. You’ve been implicated in more heinous acts of smuggling than any other working the Cornish shores today. And suspected of murder in the deaths of more than one revenuer.”

  “Suspected would be right!” snarled Rafe, furious at himself for walking into such a fool’s trap. “You’ve no proof, DeWinter, or you’d have dragged me in years ago.”

  DeWinter’s lips twisted. “We did drag you in, Captain Fleming. We enlisted you in our cause. But it’s always risky accepting the King’s shilling. You’ve not yet served out your time.”

  Rafe wondered if this was drink talking or if there was more behind this drastic change in the man. DeWinter had always been cool, remote even, but never vicious.

  “I’ve done everything you asked of me and more. I’ve earned the right to walk away,” Rafe said.

  “We decide when you walk away. You wouldn’t want Lord Brampton or the rest of the family to find out the truth, would you?”

  Rafe’s blood froze, but he refused to give DeWinter the satisfaction of knowing how scared he was. “They already know.”

  DeWinter gave a brittle laugh. “I doubt it. Brampton would have tossed you out on your ear had he sniffed one hint of scandal. He’s nothing if not his father’s son. Derek? I could see him ignoring your unsavory past. He’s a rum customer himself.”

  Anger clogged Rafe’s throat. “Haven’t I done enough?”

  DeWinter moved to the table. Picking up one of the bottles of claret, he turned it over his glass. A few drops dribbled out. “Damn. It’s about the only thing that takes away these phantom pains in the arm.” A leering smile darkened his face. “Drink or women, and I’ve not the money for a doxy tonight.”

  Rafe ignored DeWinter. Let him pickle himself in cheap wine or catch the pox. Serve him bloody well right.

  DeWinter continued. “One more job, Fleming, and you can sink back into the soft bosom of your family. All your troubles with the law will disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “But until then, we own you.”

  “Is it information you want? Names?”

  DeWinter cast him a dubious glance. “Would you give us any if you knew them?”

  Rafe absently fingered the hilt of his sword. “Not likely.”

  DeWinter sank into a chair. Catching his ruined elbow on the corner of the table, he stifled a moan between clenched teeth. His face going parchment white. He held still for a moment, his good hand clutching his empty sleeve, eyes squeezed shut. When he reopened them, his gaze fell on Rafe. Giving him a rueful shrug, he pulled a folded billet toward him. Clumsily, he opened the flap, pulling out a thin sheaf of papers. “It’s a run to Ireland. One man only. Weapons. Gold.”

  Apparently, there’d be no mention of DeWinter’s injury, no comment on the obvious strain he worked under so soon after his accident.

  Rafe shook his head. “I’ve sold out. I’m a lubber like you.”

  DeWinter gave a snort of amusement. “Hardly. You may have tried to hide your affiliations, but you’ve managed to hold on to interest in a few vessels. The Cormorant is still yours. You own more than half of her. Your second can’t refuse, and won’t when he hears the terms.”

  Rafe drew up a chair and settled himself across from DeWinter. “Why me? You could hire anyone on the north-west coast to take your man.”

  “It’s too risky trying to find a man able and trustworthy who won’t talk it around when his head is full of drink or his wallet too empty of coins. You know that stretch of coast like the back of your hand. We need that sort of knowledge. Also, our agent requested you specifically. Said you’d sailed together before, and he trusted you. That’s high praise from him. He trusts nobody.”

  “Who is it?” asked Rafe, running through his mind the various agents he’d worked with over the years.

  “He’s a Mick. A fellow named MacKenna, Ciarán MacKenna.”

  Rafe knew the man. Wild, and as deadly a customer as any he’d ever known. If MacKenna was involved, someone’s life was about to come to a swift and bloody end. He traced a purple wine stain on the tablecloth. “What’s in Ireland to cause such a fuss?”

  DeWinter’s voice was thick with drink, but Rafe was beginning to realize it took more than a few bottles of claret to send the colonel under the table. “Since this Irish emancipation problem we’ve all sorts to bother with. Catholics, Protestants, Unionists, non-Unionists, not to mention this rabble of secret societies springing up all over the place and hacking each other to bits. Castlereigh thinks MacKenna can do his part to help ease tensions. Nothing can look official. Nothing that looks like it’s government sanctioned. That’s where you and the Cormorant come in.”

  Rafe looked up to meet DeWinter’s black gaze. In this light, the man seemed faded, his face gaunt with fatigue and fast living. His clothes hung loose on his broad, muscled frame, and his hand trembled as it rested upon the table. Only DeWinter’s eyes seemed the same, black as obsidian and gleaming with some inner fire. Rafe gave an idle thought as to what DeWinter’s uncle, the Duke of Deveraux, thought of his heir’s dissipation. He smiled with a cruel sense of satisfaction. Knowing the flint-hearted duke, he was probably wishing the injury had been fatal.

  DeWinter raised an eyebrow. “Think of it as serving your country, fulfilling your duty.”

  Rafe felt a sudden need to down his own bottle of claret. His gut knotted in bitter anger. “My country knows what it can do with its duty. I serve nobody but myself.”

  DeWinter studied him. “How noble of you. It’s no wonder the beautiful
Miss Killigrew left.”

  Rafe lurched forward in his seat, grabbing DeWinter by the collar. Restraining himself through sheer force of will, he let go and sat back, but his words growled out from between clenched teeth. “What do you know of Miss Killigrew?”

  “She’s left Bodliam—alone. The man I set to watch says she took a coach from Carrisbridge soon after you departed for London.”

  So she was gone. He’d hoped that leaving the tapestry for her to find would be enough to hold her, to persuade her. But she’d left anyway. Even if she loved him, it hadn’t been enough. How could he fight years of fear with a few months of passion? How could he push aside her nightmare of a death to show her a dream of a life—with him?

  Had he come here today with Gwenyth’s kiss upon his lips and her promises still echoing in his ears, he would have denied DeWinter this victory. He would have turned his back upon the Secret Service and let them do their worst. But he arrived empty of hand and empty of heart. She was gone, and Bodliam held nothing for him now but cruel memories.

  “I’ll deliver MacKenna, but once he’s in, I’m done. You can print my name in every broadsheet in Britain, but I’ll not be your slave again.”

  “Slave, Captain Fleming? Hardly. You made a fine profit working with us. With your fortune, you’ll have ten of the like of Miss Killigrew all begging for your favors.” DeWinter’s hand moved to cradle his empty sleeve. His eyes glittered diamond hard. “Money can be quite a consolation.”

  Women who would beg for his favors because of his wealth—the fear of these women was what had spawned his bargain with Gwenyth in the first place. Rafe gave a bitter laugh, the irony lost on DeWinter.

  Gwenyth stood upon the rocky shingle, watching the waves as they rolled into the breakwater, the sun hanging low upon the horizon. Boats entered the harbor, their sails snapping as they wallowed into the protection of Kerrow’s high surrounding cliffs.