Dangerous Magic (2 page)

Gwenyth hurried home through the deepening twilight. Her bag slapped against her thigh as she rushed down the narrow road toward the harbor. Martha Ballard was delivered of a fine boy child. Even now, Gwenyth could feel the fragile weight of the baby’s body as it slid into her hands. She remembered the jerky movements of tiny hands and feet and ached for such a burden to be placed within the circle of her own arms. She recalled the way the child focused only upon the sound of its mother’s voice, and wished someone watched and listened for her with such single-mindedness.

Gwenyth neared thirty summers. It was past time for her to think of bearing and raising a child of her own. She wanted it now as never before. There was only the small problem of a father.

She passed the first cottage as she entered Kerrow. “Where the devil have you been?” Jago stepped from the trees by the road and fell in beside her. “I’ve been looking for you since dinner. I tried your cottage. The door was locked and barred.”

“I’ve been to Trewan at a birth,” Gwenyth replied, used to Jago’s gruff temper. “But Captain Fleming should be within.”

They reached her cottage. Gwenyth rapped upon the door. “Captain,” she called softly. “It’s Mistress Killigrew.”

There was a moment when she feared he’d gone, but then came a shuffle and a grunt. The bar was drawn back, and the door opened. They entered into a dark, chilly room. No fire cheered the hearth, and no lamps or tapers were lit against the evening.

“Captain Fleming?” Her eyes scanned the room.

“Here.” He stepped from behind the door.

“Why on earth do you sit in the dark?” she scolded, throwing her bag upon the table before lighting tapers at the table and upon the chimneypiece. “And why have you let the fire die?”

He shrugged. “Candles don’t burn in empty houses, nor does smoke rise from an untended fire. I didn’t want anyone to know I was staying here with you. Questions might be asked.”

“Do you not know who meets your men upon the shingle shrouded in coal dust to hide themselves from the revenuers? Half the men hereabouts carry your goods away, and the other half turn a blind eye to your doings. You’re safe enough,” Gwenyth replied, irritated at returning to such a dreary room.

She’d done it often enough before, but for some reason her earlier dreams of someone awaiting her return made it different—worse.

Rafe Fleming stood dressed in nothing but breeches and a wide linen bandage. His hair hung free of its queue to fall across his shoulders, bright golden strands among the dark glittering in the tapers’ light. The hard muscles of his chest and shoulders lay bare, and Gwenyth remembered the warmth of his skin beneath her hands, the sleek, elegant lines of a dangerous man. Her face grew hot, and her heart knotted in her chest with an odd, unexpected ache.

Jago chuckled. “They may ignore his smuggling, Gwenyth, but I know of a few men who’d be taking it wrong that you’ve a man living with you. Their plans don’t include Captain Fleming.”

Amusement gleamed in the captain’s eyes. “Will they meet me with daggers drawn and force us before the village priest?”

Angry at her body’s reaction to his presence, Gwenyth gave him a mocking glance. “Do you think I expect you to ask for my hand in marriage, Captain, simply because I bound your hurts and let you sleep upon my floor? Jago speaks nonsense.”

Jago stepped in between them. “Perhaps, but it’s no nonsense that a Riding Officer’s been nosing about. Don’t know what he suspects, but it’s best if Fleming lays quiet here for a few more days, at least until the man heads north toward Fire Beacon Point.”

Rafe Fleming stilled at the mention of the Riding Officer, the lines of his jaw hardening. “I should go. The revenuers may think you’re in league with me.”

Gwenyth knelt by the hearth with the tinderbox. “And aren’t we?”

He ignored her. “If I’m caught here, it could go bad for you.”

Gwenyth struck a spark with her flint. “You’ll stay. Your wound is still fresh. I’ll not have it sour because of poor tending.”

He sank onto a chair. His hands upon the table balled into fists of impatience, but Gwenyth noted the pallor of his face, and the sweat beading his brow despite the chill of the room. He recovered, but not rapidly enough to fight off a revenuer.

“How about your cottage, Killigrew?” he asked. “I can pay for my room and board.” He gave a dry laugh. “My villainy’s made sure of that.”

Jago shook his head. “I’d like to help you. But I’ve my wife and children, as well as my wife’s mother and sister.” He pulled at his chin. “There’s no room for more. You’d be better off here with Gwenyth to look after you.”

“Despite the outraged sensibilities of a rabble of fishermen? I’d hate to be attacked in my sick bed,” he slanted an appreciative glance at Gwenyth, “especially as their suspicions are unfounded—as of yet.”

Gwenyth ground her teeth at this jumped-up sea rover’s confidence. She opened her mouth to snap a response, but Jago forestalled her.

“They may wish mischief, but naught will happen to you here. It’s as Gwenyth said,” Jago answered. “No one in Kerrow thinks twice about a Killigrew’s strange doings. We’ve a reputation, you could say.” He laughed. “As far back as grandfathers remember their grandfathers telling it, Killigrews march to their own step, and the women march with the oddest gait of all.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” the captain asked.

Gwenyth rose and crossed to the table. He glanced up at her, his eyes in the light flashing like a rough sea. She reached over and covered his hand. “It means you stay here, and you stay safe.”

“…she is gone to another. She has left you behind. Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on…”

Rafe moved his head upon the pillow, seeking the source of the singing, but fog pressed him upon all sides. He drew a breath, pain slashing its way across his ribs, burning up through his lungs.

“…she is gone to a brother. She does treat you unkind. Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on.”

The voice continued, picking at his wounds with scalpel precision, dredging loose a past he’d locked away long years ago. Sparkling cat’s eyes seared the cloying fog like warning lamps. A kiss-me smile curved like the painful tail of a whip.

A woman’s infidelity had lit the fuse. The charge of mutiny provided the powder. And for one crystal-clear moment as the guards came to arrest him, he’d seen the two meet and ignite before his world exploded in a shower of rage and despair and horror and pain.

“…Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on…”

She disappeared into the thickening fog. He reached for her, but his bonds pulled him taut. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He thrashed against his restraints. Hurling curses. Then prayers.

His back arched, scars burning with a phantom pain. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, hands clenching as the words pummeled his mind with memories he’d sought to erase first in drink, and then ambition.

A woman had destroyed him. It had taken all his strength to scrape his way back from the edge of oblivion to wealth and independence.

He would not risk such treachery again.

A cool hand upon his shoulder held him down. “Naught but a nightmare.” A murmur like the purr of the ocean became an echo, then a voice, light and clear as music. “You’re safe, Captain. ’Tis but a fever-dream. None will harm you here. I’ll not let them. Sleep and be at peace.”

His memories dissolved like fog pushed by a cool sea breeze. Panic subsiding beneath her quiet command.

Another reassuring whisper of breath upon his cheek. A brush of lips upon his forehead, and sleep swallowed him once more.

Rafe plucked at the frayed edge of his blanket as he stared up at the wild shadows dancing across the raftered ceiling. It had been days since his arrival, and he grew restless now that his fever had finally succumbed to Gwenyth Killigrew’s draughts. He heard her singing quietly to herself as the knock of the loom’s shuttle kept tempo. Sighing and hoping for sleep to ease his boredom, he shifted upon the pallet. Pain slashed its way down his side. “Bloody hell!”

The rhythm of the loom ceased. She appeared around the edge of the screen. “You must be healing. I haven’t heard you curse for a night and a day while the fever raged.”

Rafe gritted his teeth. “Either let me out of this bed or give me something to knock me unconscious. I can’t stand another minute idle upon my back.”

She pursed her lips over a smile, but laughter sparkled in her eyes. “I won’t give you the dwale. It would do more harm than good. But, mayhap,” she put a finger to her lips, “I have something to keep you from dwelling on things too much.”

She ducked back behind the screen. Rafe heard her pass into her bedchamber at the rear of the cottage. A moment later she returned, carrying a rolled bundle. She sat down beside him and unfolded it, revealing a weaving. No bigger than a hearthrug, it showed its age in the well-worn corners and frayed hems. But despite its years, the colors remained vivid, and the designs caught and held the eye with their stylized images. Eight squares and each one captured a scene as if the creator had sat at her door and wrought in threads what she saw just beyond her threshold.

Gwenyth smoothed her hands across the weaving. “My mother made it when she was no more than eight or nine. My great-gran was a weaver and an artist with thread. She taught my mother Morvoren who took to it like a duck to water. Barely time for learning the arts of the healer she was so busy at her loom. I’m thought to possess great skill and my designs are much sought after, but Morvoren’s creations would have taken your breath away.”

“And how will this keep me from dwelling on the fact that I’m bored out of my mind?” Rafe growled.

“When I was a girl I used it to help me remember what I ought to be thankful for. When I said my prayers at night, I would count off the squares as I went. The animals of the earth, the birds of the air, the grasses and flowers and trees, hearth and home, family, the infinite sky, and the bounteous oceans.” She motioned to each of the squares in their turn. “By the end, sleep came easier.”

“What’s this square for?” Rafe pointed to a square depicting an antlered man.

She paused before she spoke. “This square is for Cernunnos—Herne the Hunter—God, the creator of all things as some see him.”

Wind sighed past the cottage, ruffling the edges of the weaving. The hair at the back of Rafe’s neck rose. “And this one?” He touched the center and final square.

Gwenyth Killigrew spread her palm across the black section of tapestry. “This one is left open for you to fill. You must listen to your heart. It will whisper what it wishes to the other eight squares and then into the ears of Cernunnos.”

The night seemed to crouch at the corners of the room, alive and waiting to hear what he whispered to the empty square. Gwenyth’s face glowed in the light from the fire. She smelled of lavender and mint, and Rafe had an urge to catch her in his arms and draw her down beside him, to bury his face in the wild scents of her hair and skin.

“What did you wish for?” he whispered.

As if sensing his thoughts, she colored and rose, leaving the tapestry draped across his blanket. “A strong back, nimble fingers and a clear head to keep me from falling under the spell of scoundrels like you, Captain Fleming.” She slipped around the screen, turning back just before she disappeared. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “As you can see, Cernunnos granted me my wish.”

Gwenyth glanced up just as the sun dipped beneath the western waves. Evening shadows stole over the cottage, the only light coming from the hearth fire. She stood at the table, chopping vegetables, working off her lingering annoyance in the clean, rapid strokes of the knife. Rafe Fleming was a troublemaker and a pirate. She’d no time for the captain’s quicksilver charm and smug assumptions. She should have insisted that Jago take him in. But she hadn’t. She’d let him stay. Made a point of it. And why had she done so? She refused to ponder too long. Afraid of what she might discover about her true reasons for keeping him close.

She scraped the vegetables from the board to the pot, trying to turn her attention back to her cooking and off the uncomfortable subject of Captain Fleming. Difficult to do as he lay just behind the screen in the corner of the room. He was awake. She felt his watchfulness as a prickling at the back of her mind, a tense frustration that simmered like the stew she prepared. But he’d kept silent most of the day, and she’d ignored him as best she could, only speaking when she had to change his bandages or tend his wound. Childish, yes, but she wasn’t sure she could check her tongue after his presumptuous behavior of last night. And she’d learned long ago that her anger carried consequences.

She’d just returned her knife to its block when a sudden rap sounded on her door, and Jago slid into the cottage, dropping the bar home behind him. His grim expression and sharp glance he directed toward Fleming’s corner told her everything.

“The Riding Officer’s come?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

Jago nodded. “Aye, he just rode into the village. He knows Fleming came ashore nearby, and he knows he was injured. Enough to seek aid.”

“That shall lead him to me.” She shot a look to the growing darkness. “Have we time to get the captain to safety?”

“I’m thinking not. This officer’s a smart one, and not liable to be gulled into a pint or two by the lads at Pilchard’s tavern. He’ll come seeking you as soon as someone lets on you’re the only healer within ten miles of Fleming’s beaching.”

A voice sounded from behind them. “He may come, but he’ll not take me. I won’t wear chains again.”

Jago and Gwenyth turned at the same instant.

Captain Fleming stood on shaky legs, gripping the screen for support. Defiance hardened his features, burned bright in his eyes. “Stall him. Give me ten minutes head start. I can make for the hills east of here, lose myself on the moor.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “You can barely walk twenty paces before you’re winded and the stitches are pulled. A day or two on the open moor and all my work will have been for naught.” When he tried to interrupt, she raised a hand. “I told you stay here and stay safe. I’m a law-abiding citizen, but I’m not above helping a cause when I think it’s a fair one.” To Jago, she said, “We’ll hide him in the root cellar.”

Rugs were thrown aside, exposing a rough-hewn, wooden door set into the stone floor. Jago gripped an iron ring, opening the cellar with a loud creak and a poof of musty air. “Down you go, Captain.”

Fleming leaned over the black hole. “This’ll be the first place he looks.”

“It may be, but it’s a chance down there or none up here, and I’ve a mind to stay out of stir tonight. If you keep out of sight at the back of the cellar, he mayn’t see you.”

“I’ll be trapped,” Fleming argued. “Not even a hope of escape.”

A flurry of official knocks sounded, sending Gwenyth’s heart skipping into her throat. She urged him toward the hole. “Scarce more if we spend valuable minutes arguing over it. Quick now.”

He climbed down the ladder, giving both of them one last doubtful look before dropping out of sight. There was a stumble, a bang and a mumbled curse before she slammed the trapdoor closed and straightened the rugs.

“I’m growing too old for this,” Jago said as he made quick work of tidying the quilts on the pallet and tucking the slops jar out of sight. “My nerves can’t take it.” The knocks became a shout to open in the name of the King as Jago placed Fleming’s empty cup and pitcher on the table. “’Tis done.”

“You’ll do what it takes. A survivor, you are,” Gwenyth assured him, crossing the room. “A lot like the captain in that way.” Straightening her shoulders, she took a deep, even breath. “May the gods give me a clever tongue tonight.” She raised the bar, pushing the door wide open in welcome. “No need to be waking the village, sir. We heard you. You’ve business with me?”

The man tipped his hat, but his demeanor was anything but respectful as he took in the cottage’s interior. “The name’s Hobbs. I’m with the Board of Customs. I’m seeking information on a man who came ashore here four days ago. His name’s Fleming. Styles himself a captain, though he’s no more than a common smuggler and a criminal.” He directed a cold glance at Jago, but her brother remained unmoved. Hobbs continued. “His ship was attacked off the coast. Some say he was injured during the fight and sought aid for his wounds. The men at the harbor tell me that would make you the logical destination.”

Gwenyth made a great show of thinking before she answered. “A man did come by here like you say, but he’s gone long since. If his injuries were grave, he gave no sign of it. Just a stitch or two, and he was off south.”

Hobbs scowled as he dipped his head in the direction of the screen. “And the pallet in the corner?” He walked to the low cot, kicked at it with the toe of his boot before bending to examine it.

Gwenyth crossed her arms, trying not to reveal her frightened trembling. “I care for many, Mr. Hobbs. It’s convenient for me to be keeping a bed for those who might be needing it.”

“Like a wounded smuggler?” he shot back, his good manners wearing thin, his ruddy face growing redder. “There’s blood here. Fresh.”

A wild, pulse-pounding tension shivered through her, but her smile remained placid, her expression serene. “Ah, that would be Mrs. Geller’s,” she said, lowering her voice. “She suffers from a woman’s complaint. Her courses, you see…” She shrugged, letting her words trail off.

It had the desired effect. He whipped out a handkerchief, disgust coloring his features as he tried to clean his hands. “But you say you remember this Fleming fellow.”

She stiffened. “I tend the wound, not the man. I didn’t ask the gentleman’s name, and he didn’t volunteer it.”

“Then you won’t mind if I search.”

His arms crossed, his stance threatening, Jago stepped into the officer’s way, forcing the smaller Hobbs to step back. “It’s as my sister says. The man’s long gone.” His look dared the revenuer to challenge him.

The officer puffed out his chest as if he would argue, but Gwenyth knew they’d won. The man’s sudden fear soured the air. He’d not risk a row with Jago. Not alone. He cleared his throat. Tipped his hat again in surrender. “I’ll alert the authorities south of here to be on guard. If he’s wounded, he won’t travel fast or far.”

Gwenyth followed him to the door, still not quite believing they would get away with such a bold trick. “Quite a fuss for one man,” she said as Hobbs stepped out into the lane. It was now full dark, and a half moon splayed thin gray shadows between the cottages. “Surely the Preventives have other fish less trouble to catch.”

Hobbs’ mouth thinned, his nostrils flared. “Fleming and his crew are wanted in the murders of two members of the Waterguard and the disappearance of a Riding Officer near Gorran Haven. He’ll hang for his crimes.”

Her fingers pressed into the wood of the door, a headache blazing up behind her eyes. Could she have been so mistaken about Rafe Fleming? Could her Sight have missed such villainy? She wouldn’t believe it. Instead, she swallowed around the hard lump lodged in her throat. “Good night, Mr. Hobbs.”

Startled by the accusations and her reaction to it, she almost missed the movement at the corner of her vision. Across the way and deep in the shadows, a man stood watching. His face was lost in the gloom, but patience and purpose marked his thoughts. She waited at the door as he ducked into the street to follow the Riding Officer.

Someone else, it seemed, was interested in Captain Rafe Fleming.

“There’s no sign of your stranger. If there was anyone out there, they’ve gone.” Rafe ducked beneath the lintel of the cottage door, an empty pail in his hand.

Gwenyth Killigrew stood at a long cupboard built into the north wall of the cottage. Open shelves ran above it, housing jars and bottles, mixing bowls, and measuring cups. A canister sat to one side holding spatulas and strainers, funnels, and wooden spoons.

He still had trouble coming to terms with the thought of this voluptuous woman in the role of healer and resident witch. Witches had warts, double chins, wrinkled skin. Gwenyth was a vision in a simple gingham dress, her silver-blond hair pulled loose off her face and held with a leather thong.

Heat slid through his body, centered uncomfortably in his groin. “While I was at it, I fed the chickens. I noticed the coop’s in need of repair. You’ll be serving dinner for every fox within five miles if you leave it like that.”

“And what sort of fancy gentleman are you to be knowing about such things as repairing coops?” Her words came laced with disapproval.

“The kind who likes to eat,” Rafe shot back, placing the pail down next to the table. She was a temptation he didn’t need. Trouble with a capital
T
. And no doubt, she knew exactly what she was doing to him. It only fanned the flames of his growing desire. Sent a churning frustration boiling through him with no way to satisfy it. He was trapped here until the roads were safe. With her. And with his thoughts. Improper at best. Downright indecent at worst.

She blew an errant strand of hair away from her face as she picked up a pestle. The dried root let off a spicy scent as she crushed it within the narrow, brass mortar. “You’re supposed to be mending yourself, Captain Fleming, not my chicken coop. You’ve been pacing about this place like a pegged bear since dawn. Your fever’s only been gone since yesterday.”

“And it’s been five days and still you call me Captain Fleming as if I’m a naval officer in his Majesty’s fleet. It’s Rafe.” Wire-taut nerves chewed through his restraint.

She cocked her head to the side, an eyebrow raised in question. “A naval officer…” She spoke half to herself, her eyes seeming to look through him. “Now I see…it comes a bit clearer to me.”

“Stop.” Rafe slammed his hand down upon the table. She snapped her gaze back to his face. “Stop piecing me together like a puzzle. If you have a question—ask. Otherwise, keep your damned Sight focused on other things, like getting me back to my ship.”

She fiddled with the pestle in her hand. A faint blush stained her cheeks as she resumed crushing the herbs within the mortar.

Rafe cleared his throat, ashamed at his outburst, but glad to see the tension between them beginning to thaw. It hadn’t been a comfortable few days with her. If not glowering at him, she treated him with icy detachment.

“I’m not used to sitting idle. My…my business interests command all my time. And the
Cormorant
is special. She was my first boat. She’s home to me.” He sighed, plowing a hand through his hair. “I just hope she made it clean away.”

Gwenyth Killigrew left her cupboard to stir a pot simmering over the fire. “There’s never a use in worrying over something you can’t fix. If she’s captured or sunk, there’s no ship to be worried over anyway, and if she’s not then she’s safe enough and naught to worry over either.”

Rafe sank onto a chair. “Healer, seer and philosopher. Do your talents never end?” Aggravated by his inactivity, he threw her a mocking smile. His ribs ached, and the wound itched and stung as it mended. He poured a cup of ale from a pitcher upon the table. “Let me worry. It’s something to do.”

“Jago was by before dawn,” she said without looking up. “He’s started some rumors, set a false trail south toward Portquin for that man Hobbs to follow. If I know my brother, that Riding Officer will be chasing his own tail before he realizes he’s been hoaxed.”

“We’ll see.” He watched as she moved back to the cupboard, pulling down a large strainer. She lined it with a cotton cloth before placing it over a bowl. “What potion is that?” he asked, changing the subject. As long as she was talking to him, he may as well enjoy it.

She looked up. “I’m making a salve of tansy, mugwort and chamomile. It’s used for—”

A brisk knock upon the door interrupted them. “Mistress? Are you within?” A woman stood on the threshold. She held a young boy by one grubby hand. A rough bandage swathed his right ankle and foot.

The woman startled when Rafe rose from his chair. “Oh! You give me a fright, sir.” Her eyes widened, and Rafe caught the fear in her gaze.

“Don’t let the man scare you, Eva.” Gwenyth crossed the floor, wiping her hands upon a cloth. “He’s harmless enough, though grumpy as a badger.”

Eva entered timidly, giving Rafe a wide berth. The boy slid Rafe a wary glance before hobbling into the cottage, his lip caught between his teeth as he took each step.

“Henry’s cut his foot upon the strand. The bleeding’s slow to stop. I hoped you might put a stitch or two on it and mayhap a poultice?”

Gwenyth settled the boy in a chair, bringing a taper close to see the wound. She unwound the bandage, pulling it gently away from the broken flesh. Rafe stood behind, but over Gwenyth’s shoulder he saw the oozing slice of skin where a rock or shell had torn into the bottom of the child’s foot. The boy moaned and grasped his mother’s hand tightly as the last of the bandage came away. Gwenyth examined the foot, her touch light and efficient. “It’ll need a good cleaning and then I’ll sew it up. The dressing will need to be changed twice a day for best effect.”

The woman made a sound, but Rafe heard nothing. His eyes remained riveted to the deep gash running the length of the boy’s slender foot. As Rafe watched, blood welled from the wound, dripping upon the rug. The room swayed, and his stomach twisted with nausea. He shivered, even though sweat beaded his forehead. His vision clouded, and he lurched, grabbing for the mantel before he fell.