Dangerous Magic (4 page)

She smiled. “I wouldn’t be knowing about that. But I’ve passed this way more times than I can count in day and night. The only haunting I’ve ever seen has been by the tub-men using her cellars to hide their cargos.”

Rafe took a few steps up the drive. Plucking a broken branch from the ground, he stared up at the empty house. “That makes sense. A good ghost story will keep all sorts out. But still,” he cast a glance at Gwenyth, “it’s sad to see such beauty hidden away.”

She shook her head. “You’ve the tongue of a rogue in that head of yours, Captain Fleming.” She started down the drive to the lane beyond the house.

Rafe tossed away his branch and jogged to catch up with her. “From head to toe, I’m scoundrel through and through.” He tossed her a wicked smile.

She met his gaze, and Rafe was struck by the beauty of her eyes, gray and impenetrable as fog. Flecks of gold flickering like summer lightning in their depths.

“You wear your charm like a jacket to ward off the cold,” she said. “There’ll come a time when you’ll be warmed by a woman’s love and there’ll be no need for such protection.”

Excitement jumped in Rafe’s gut. He took her arm. “Is this one of your visions, or are you simply throwing me the same platitudes you use to swindle your paying customers?”

She gave his body a raking sweep of her eyes and laughed. “It takes no vision to see such a thing, only eyes in my head.”

She pulled away and said no more as Rafe trailed behind.

They followed the lane to Kerrow, the path taking them down from the hills toward the sea. Past the first straggle of cottages just as men began to emerge, dressed for the wet and cold of a day spent fishing for pollack and bass in the waters off the coast. To a man, they nodded or tipped their caps to the Witch of Kerrow as if she were a great lady. But some watched her with a more possessive eye, running their gaze over her body as if she were a three-masted corvette, sleek and trim and only needing a steady captain to pilot her. Rafe observed her reaction to such behavior; she seemed unaware of the scrutiny as she slipped her bag farther upon her shoulder, her steps still light and graceful in spite of twenty-four hours without rest.

Once or twice he challenged a man’s lascivious gaze. His jaw hardening with an urge to step closer to Gwenyth, take her arm and thwart the dagger-glances sent his way. The men dropped their eyes, refusing to confront him. He knew they recognized him, and that they understood he was never a man to cross—for any reason.

“They eye you like a meal,” he growled beneath his breath.

“They know I stand ready to choose, and they wait and wonder.”

“Choose what? You speak in riddles.”

She stepped around a puddle. “I’m looking for a man. I need a child, someone I can pass my knowledge on to, someone to take my place when I die.”

Rafe’s breath caught in his throat, though he refused to consider too closely the rush that surged through him. “You seek a husband?”

“A man, not a husband. The Killigrew women have ever done it thus, though I’m supposing there have been some who found happiness in wedlock. My grandmother never did, nor my mother either. And though it would be easy enough to marry a man without love for the sake of a babe, I won’t do it.”

Rafe should feel horrified at such wanton and immoral behavior. Yet with what little he knew of her he could understand such reasoning. There was something about her he couldn’t see crushed beneath the boot of a loveless marriage.

“Did you ever know your father?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Some said my mother sought her children in the great house at Rosevear. Jago and I bear the coloring of the Chynoweths, but who’s to say for certain. Any truth to that tale went to the grave with Morvoren,” she gave Rafe a pointed look, “and I’m not pining for halls of marble or trinkets of gold.”

They reached the cottage. “So you never want to marry?”

Gwenyth met his gaze, gray eyes snapping with an inner fire. “I never said I didn’t want to marry, but it cannot be—not ever.”

A throbbing began behind Rafe’s eyes. Sweat teased down his neck, and the world faded and melted until he heard only his own blood roaring in his ears and saw only the gray cloudbank of her stare. “And why is that?” he whispered, refusing to look away.

“My love is doomed to die,” she said in a strained voice. Rafe realized the brightness in her eyes was unshed tears. “Caught in the shrouds of his sinking ship, he drowns. I’ve seen his fate again and again. So if widow’s weeds I’ll never wear, neither shall I don a wedding gown.”

Straightening her back and lifting her chin, she entered the cottage. Rafe put a shaky hand to his head. The wild idea burst in him like cannon shot. She said she’d never marry, but there was nothing gained without a risk.
Damn me for a fool,
he thought,
but why not?

Gwenyth sat at her loom. Outside, dense, rippling clouds brought with them a misting rain and a damp chill, hardly a hopeful beginning to May. Captain Fleming sat in a chair drawn close to the fire, a piece of wood in one hand, a knife in the other. Gwenyth’s hands worked, moving the shuttle back and forth, back and forth, leaving her mind free to wander.

Rafe had grown quiet since yesterday. The angles of his face lengthening and hardening into the stern lines of the smuggler captain, the man who could command a rabble of a crew or battle a revenue cutter. The man who could weather a fierce Atlantic gale or slip through the blockade, landing tea and brandy, tobacco and lace upon Cornwall’s guarded shores. Worried, she’d gone so far as to try and slip between the cracks in his mind, catch a glimpse of what ailed him. Was it his wound? Was it worry over his ship and crew? But since his arrival, he’d closed himself off to her, the snatches of his thoughts and memories held tightly within him. He wouldn’t allow her such contact again, and she hesitated to take from him what was not freely given.

A gust of wind slammed against the cottage. The door crashed open. Rain billowed in to puddle on the floor as the door swung wildly upon its hinges. They rose at the same instant, both rushing to secure the latch. He reached it first, closing it firmly against the weather. Gwenyth turned for a cloth to wipe the floor, but he caught her arm. His eyes glittered in the glow from the fire, but there was no pull of her Sight drawing her in to their depths, nothing to reveal his thoughts to her. She was on her own.

“Gwenyth, I need to speak with you.” He gave a shaky laugh. “You probably already know what I mean to say. Don’t you?”

He didn’t drop her arm. Instead he ran his hand up her sleeve to touch her shoulder, her cheek and the stray strands of hair escaping her combs.

Trying to ignore the nearness of his firm, sensual lips and the days-growth of beard shadowing his jaw, Gwenyth shook her head. “The Sight moves within me like the running of the tides. Today, I see nothing of what you intend.”

He drew in a breath, letting it out in a sigh of resolve. “Come to Hampshire with me when I go.”

Stunned, Gwenyth latched on to the first word that made sense to her reeling mind. “Hampshire? But your ship lies south.”

“My ship no longer. I’m handing her to my lieutenant to command. I’ve done what I intended. I’ve made myself a fortune, and a penniless younger son is no longer my lot in life. When I leave here, I leave for my family’s home to reclaim my place.”

Gwenyth wrenched her hands from his grip, afraid of the wild thrill that had surged through her for an instant. She couldn’t. Impossible. “I’ve told you before, Captain Fleming, I’ll not wed. I won’t mourn the man I love, and I won’t marry where love is not.”

His shoulders slumped as if he let out a pent-up breath, but then his lips turned up in a sly smile. “I’m not asking for marriage. Just come.”

Gwenyth frowned, now just plain confused.

“You have a talent for seeing the true nature of a person,” Rafe explained. “I need that gift.”

“For what?”

“I want you to find me a wife.”

Gwenyth backed away. She didn’t like where this was headed. “Why would you need my help for that? You’re a gentleman with a garden of elegant ladies to choose from when you return with your riches.”

He gave an angry shrug. “A garden of ladies, you say, but each rose bears a host of thorns. Power and wealth is what they crave. I’ve seen it for myself. It’ll be difficult to pick a bride from such fallow ground. I know it sounds absurd, but what if you were to simply pose as my betrothed—”

“That’s your grand plan? Are you mad?”

“It’s the only way I can keep you close to me without awkward questions being asked.”

“And how do you expect to sweetheart these ladies while I’m standing by playing gooseberry?”

He ran a hand over his face. Blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. Not yet, but we’d think of something between us. It would work. We’d make it work.”

Gwenyth crossed the room, unable to look at him, unable to form a thought. Behind her, he sighed, and she heard the scrape of a stool across the floor as he sat.

“You don’t want to marry. I do.” Misery shrouded his words. “I’ve lived too long alone while I fought to make my fortune. I want to pick up my life where I left off. You can help me find a woman whose words match her heart. You can find me a bride I can trust.”

Gwenyth spun on her heel. The fire’s glow threw shadows on the sharp angles of his face. His eyes flashed as he met her gaze, but he didn’t look away. Instead he widened his eyes, almost as if he dared her to enter and take what she wanted from him.

The Sight’s pull drew her in until the cottage swam before her. Shadows flickering and dancing across her vision. She dragged a breath into her lungs and tore her eyes away before she was lost to the visions.

“Never be opening yourself to me like that again,” she scolded. Angry at herself. Angry at him. “Not unless you mean it. I’ll not be your private charmer to spy upon the women you want to bed. In matters of the heart, you must take your chances like everyone else.”

“You take no chances. You’ve used your gifts to tell you the fate that awaits you if you fall in love. Why can’t you do as much for me?”

Gwenyth’s throat ached. She tried swallowing the hard lump, but it stuck fast. “In my dreams I weep for a man I don’t know. Can’t you see how much worse it would be to mourn a man I’ve loved flesh and bone and heart? The future is best left to God. Mortal man can’t bear that knowing.” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, but she made no move to wipe them away. “I can’t do it. Please don’t ask it of me again.”

He rose and stepped forward, his arm outstretched as if he might grab her, but Gwenyth backed away, unwilling to have him touch her.

“If you would just listen—”

The door opened again, but this time Jago entered, running a hand through his wet hair. His gaze traveled from Rafe to Gwenyth, and he frowned. “It’s seeming I’m interrupting something. Mayhap I should bring my news back another time.”

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Gwenyth wiped at her eyes. “Our words are at an end. Sit down, and I’ll bring you some cider to take the damp away.” She crossed to the cupboard to fetch a cup.

The captain took a seat. “You’ve news for me?”

“The Riding Officer has moved on, and the roads south are unguarded.” Gwenyth returned with a cup of cider in time to see Jago give Rafe a pointed look. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to be gone back to your ship.”

Rafe met Jago’s gaze for a tense moment before her brother dropped his eyes, taking the cup from Gwenyth’s hand. He downed the tart cider with one swallow and slammed the tin cup upon the table. “Gwenyth, I’ve something I need to be speaking with you about. Walk me home.”

Rafe half rose from his chair, but Gwenyth put out a warning hand as she directed her words to Jago. “As you’re wishing. Let me fetch my cloak.”

“I’ve a few words I need to be speaking with Captain Fleming as well, lass. I’ll be along.”

Gwenyth glanced at both men, but their minds were shut as tight as a poacher’s trap. She grimaced her exasperation, but knew it would make no difference if she quarreled. Jago would ignore her and Rafe Fleming was angry with her. It was easiest to withdraw to gather her scattered thoughts.

Outside, the storm had eased, leaving only a breezy mist of rain to contend with. She pulled her hood over her head as she inhaled the sharp scents of sea air and drying nets. Above the beat of the surf against the outer breakwater came the lonely clang of the buoy bell.

Rafe frightened her. He was a mystery where so much of her life was clear—past, present and future. His unforeseen arrival began to weave a new thread into the tapestry of her life. Began to show her what could be if she only had the strength to take it. She felt the changes deep within her as each minute in his company added to the disturbance of the pattern. She could cut the thread, tease the errant strands back into place and go on as before, but at what cost to herself?

She’d only taken a dozen steps toward Jago’s cottage before his approaching footsteps crunched over the gravel. She paused and looked back over her shoulder. “It isn’t like you to be worrying over my doings.”

Jago dragged off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “It isn’t like you to be doing such silly things as sparking with Rafe Fleming. The man’s a rogue and a criminal.”

Gwenyth sniffed. “He’s a free-trader and the last I knew, you were hand in glove with their doings which makes you one and the same. If he’s such a dangerous villain, why’d you bring him to me for healing?”

“Because I didn’t want him dying on my beach. I’d no notion you’d take to him in such a way. You’ve men thick as honey waiting on you, Gwenyth Killigrew, and you always have done since you were a lass of twelve and the boys trailing you like pups. Did you look at any of them twice—do you now? Not a one! But the first fancy-speaking dandy who strolls into your cottage and you’re ready to lift your skirts.”

Jaw clenched, Gwenyth grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into an alleyway, away from the prying eyes and keen ears of anyone nearby. “So it’s his station you’ve a problem with.”

“Aye, he’ll take what you’re offering, Gwenyth, and thank you for the ride. But that’s all. That’s all any of his like will do.”

Gwenyth’s shoulders slumped with fatigue. Jago fought her, but his anger sprang from a much deeper fury. “There’s no one can say for sure that Lord Mark sired us. If Mama thought we’d be better by knowing she would have given us the secret and gladly. She saw something that stilled her tongue. Content yourself with this life, Jago. Stop hungering for what can only bring you sorrow.”

Jago’s eyes flashed with a dangerous light. His lips curled into a contemptuous sneer. “You lecture me on hunger, but it takes no sight to see you hunger as well, and sorrow can only follow from letting that man into your life.”

Gwenyth straightened and met the challenge in his gaze. The world fell away. No sound but the roar of her own blood in her ears. No sight but the focused gleam of Jago’s dark irises. Then as if a curtain was drawn aside, a voice called out her name. The alleyway blurred and dissolved, and she stood upon the shingle beneath Kerrow. She saw her shadow-self watching the sea, an arm lifted to her eyes against the fading afternoon sun as if she waited for something—or someone. Loneliness clung to the vision, a heart-breaking emptiness that shot across the divide and froze her here and now with its force.

Concealed by a hat and a heavy coat, a man approached. Tall and broad, he crossed the beach, one arm stretched out to take her hand. She spun around and fell into his embrace. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she whispered something into his ear.

Gwenyth strained to hear the words but as if a whirlpool opened beneath her feet, she felt herself being sucked away from the scene, back into the alleyway. Doubled over, she fought for air against the vision’s power. Her lungs burned, every breath like a thousand icy needles in her chest. Never had a vision affected her so physically.

Her mind spun, her senses confused by stepping between worlds—between times. Who was the mysterious man, and why did she clutch him like a lost child? Such clear Sight came seldom. She would do well to heed its message, could she but understand it.

Jago grabbed her elbow as she swayed against him. “Steady, lass, steady,” he chivied, the bite gone out of his voice. “Now why would you go and try to do such a foolish thing as to read me?” He let her lean against him as they left the alley. “You know it only makes you sick. Keep away from your kin, and train your Sight upon those less protected.”

His arm curled around her middle in a reassuring hug. For all his bark, he was her only close family, and she loved him.

“Come,” he added. “Vivyan and the children would love to see you. They’ve been busy all day preparing for tomorrow and the May celebrations.”

Gwenyth shivered. How could she have forgotten tomorrow’s significance? Had she been so unsettled by Captain Fleming’s arrival she’d put Beltane from her mind? Or were other forces at work? Never one to believe in coincidence, she wondered what—or who—prompted Rafe to propose such a wild idea. And why had she felt as if a lead weight pressed against her chest when she refused him?

Gwenyth made a silent entreaty to the May goddess for strength, and added a quick prayer to the Virgin, just in case. Whether it was for the strength to accept Rafe or let him go, she couldn’t say.

“I’ll come with you gladly,” she said, curling in to the comfort of Jago’s embrace.

Her brother seemed relieved she acquiesced so easily. “Vivyan can give you some brandy and let you settle yourself before you return to your cottage—and Fleming.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Brandy? Compliments of the captain?”

Jago snorted. “Compliments? You don’t make the money he’s made by handing out free samples. It were payment for keeping him from expiring. I’m wondering now if I oughtn’t to have kept to my ales and left him to fend for himself.” His eyes were grim as he glanced at Gwenyth. “This may be the dearest bottle of brandy I’ll ever know.”

Rafe knelt upon the shingle, tossing stones into the surf. Farther up the strand, three fishermen beached their boat, a hopeful gathering of gulls screeching and wheeling above them. Far out to sea, the sky glowed pink and orange as the rain moved on to the east.

What had possessed him to make such an outrageous proposal to Gwenyth? He blamed it on a sleepless night and the sweep of emotion bound up with the discovery of Goninan and his impending return home. Besides, she was right, of course. He did have a garden of ladies to choose from, each more beautiful, more accomplished, more untrustworthy than the last.

Anabel Hillier’s face swam before his eyes. With her soft auburn curls and her sparkling green eyes, she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known. And he’d known her all her life. “When we grow up, you’ll marry me and we’ll live happily forevermore,” she’d told him over and over as they’d walked the lanes and tracks around Bodliam’s park, and he’d believed her. How could he have known that her childish fantasies would turn to adult ambitions? And that those ambitions would never include a younger son with only an uncertain future in the Navy to recommend him?