Moonspun Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Would you please cease treating me like an idiot? How much longer must I wait for you to confide in me? Completely, not just your tantalizing little morsels.”

  She was far too perceptive, he thought, keeping his expression impassive with some difficulty. “Soon, I promise. Tell me about Lincoln Penhallow.”

  “He’s a baronet’s son, around twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He’s a trial to his parents, so I hear, and is on the edge of being disowned for his irresponsible behavior. He gambles and keeps a barque of frailty—that is your gentleman’s expression, is it not?—in Falmouth. Haven’t you been able to sound him out as yet either?”

  “Ah, Victoria, a waltz at last. Come along. We’ll make a striking couple.”

  And they did. The only problem was that several people were convinced that Victoria was dancing with her brother-in-law, Damien Carstairs, Baron Drago.

  Rafael was terribly nice to dance with, causing Victoria little strain. Her leg didn’t complain overly, and after the waltz was done, it was time for supper.

  “You’re an excellent dancer,” Victoria said as she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm.

  “So are you. I’m starved. Once I’ve taken care of my stomach, perhaps I can convince you to see to my other needs.” His lecherous grin, replete with a display of lovely teeth, robbed his words of anything but amusing nonsense. He squeezed her hand.

  “You’re being outrageous”—this said with a giggle—“and you really should stop it.”

  “What did you say, Victoria?”

  She heard Elaine behind her, her voice sharp and suspicious. She turned to smile, saw the fury in her cousin’s eyes, and cocked her head to one side. “Come along, Damien,” chided Elaine. “You’re taking me to dinner, remember?”

  Victoria had the poor judgment to giggle again. “This is Rafael, Elaine.”

  Elaine sucked in her breath, staring at Rafael. “But I . . . that is, Mrs. Madees told me that . . . ha, never mind. There’s Damien.”

  “Quite a problem there,” said Rafael thoughtfully.

  “Yes. But Damien has done nothing since we’ve returned.”

  “Not even a hair out of line?”

  “No, he is probably well and completely over whatever it was he felt toward me.”

  “It’s true that you’re no longer a virgin. Perhaps that was the obsession he had with you.”

  “I heard Elaine say once to Damien that she feared that as her time neared he would lose interest in her.”

  “If my twin does lose interest in his pregnant wife, I hope he has his survival enough at heart to stay away from you.”

  Victoria paused a moment and looked up at him. “If the DeMoretons accept our offer, then we can leave Drago Hall as early as next week.”

  “Well, actually . . . no, not really, Victoria.”

  “Ah, out at last. Come now, husband, I’ve been patient with you, but you—” She didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, hello, Lady Columb. How lovely you look tonight. How is Lord Columb?”

  Rafael stood with an interested smile plastered on his face as the two ladies conversed, his attention on the various young men he’d spoken with throughout the evening. He would wager the Seawitch that each and every one of them was part of the Hellfire Club. But what annoyed him no end was the realization that none of them had the brains to organize such a venture. The one who had done that—the Ram—was no Johnny Tregonnet or Lincoln Penhallow or any of the other young wastrels. But Johnny, with his surfeit of brandy, was the weak link. Rafael determined to push Johnny before the end of the ball.

  “I’m starving,” Victoria said, tugging on his sleeve. “Lady Columb decided I really wasn’t pregnant, and went off to mind somebody else’s business.”

  “I’m trying, Victoria, I’m trying. Allow me to seat you and I’ll fetch you a plate. I see that is the way it is done. The gentlemen are the waiters.”

  “All right. Why don’t I sit with Lincoln Penhallow and Miss Joyce Kernick? Shouldn’t you like to get reacquainted with Lincoln?”

  “Ah, yes, gentlemen are but waiters and studs and the butts of their fond wives’ jests.” He flicked a careless finger over her cheek, then escorted her to where Lincoln and Joyce Kernick, a young plain-faced girl endowed with a dowry the size to render her quite comely to the most critical eye, were seated.

  Baron Drago and his lovely, very pregnant baroness were alone for a moment at their table. “I made an utter fool of myself,” Elaine said, her hand fretting over her stomach.

  “Oh?” Damien looked away, waving at Lord and Lady Merther. “They will join us momentarily,” he added languidly. “I trust that in your present condition, my lord Merther will have the decency to keep his hand off your knee.”

  Elaine waved that away as being of no interest. “I thought Rafael was you. And Victoria was laughing with him and he was touching her and I . . . well, I was furious.”

  “We’ve been married for five years. You can’t tell me apart from my twin?”

  Elaine studied his handsome face. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as lean as his twin, but it was difficult to tell unless he was naked. His eyes were the same brilliant silver gray, the nose straight, the cheekbones high. And the lustrous black hair—no difference at all there, nor in the beautiful mouth that smiled identically, or grinned just offside, so very charmingly. But there was one difference, noticeable only when either of the twins laughed immoderately. Both were possessed of perfect white teeth, but Damien had a gold tooth toward the back of his mouth.

  “No,” she said at last. “It would take me a few minutes of speaking with you before I would truly be certain.” She continued studying him for another minute or so. “If you wished to make me believe you were Rafael, I don’t know how long it would take me to realize that you weren’t.”

  “I shall tell Rafael to hold his tongue around you, then, my dear. Ah, my lady, please allow me to assist you.” And Damien was on his feet, helping the very obese Lady Merther into a chair that he prayed would hold her considerable weight. Her breasts, shoved up ridiculously high, in a gown that was too youthfully styled for her, were nearly fully exposed. He saw the blue veins and the stretch marks from her four pregnancies. He never stopped smiling.

  Rafael waited until nearly three o’clock in the morning before smoothly easing Johnny Tregonnet into a corner. “What is this?” Johnny inquired, looking with an owlish expression at Rafael. “You’re Rafael, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Didn’t think you was Damien, he ain’t all that friendly most of the time. There’d be no reason for him to want to talk to me here anyway.”

  “I want you to tell me about the Hellfire Club, Johnny. I think I just might like to become one of you.”

  Johnny stared at him, his wits gone begging after seven brandies. He looked wildly about for help, but saw none. “How d’you know about that?”

  “I know you’re a member, and Vincent Landower, and Lincoln Penhallow, to name a few. Tell me how I can get in touch with the Ram. I would join you, Johnny.”

  “I, ah . . . “He stopped, looked agonized, then said, “I’ll tell the Ram. He’ll have to decide. All right?”

  “Do tell the Ram that he’ll be able to count on me, as a member, to ravish all the young virgins in the county, but if I’m turned down, I’ll turn quickly nasty. You understand that, Johnny?”

  “I don’t know,” said Johnny.

  “I’ll take you down, Johnny . . . oh, yes, I’ll take you down so fast you won’t know how it happened. Talk to the Ram for me. Make him see things correctly. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Rafael nodded and watched him weave away.

  Three couples stayed at Drago Hall, for their homes were too far distant to make the journey in one day. The ball itself didn’t end until just before dawn. Elaine, pleased and so weary she could scarcely climb the stairs, was even nodding and smiling to Victoria.

  Ligger, bless his efficient calm soul, saw to the
guests, smoothing everyone’s way.

  Rafael and Victoria collapsed fully dressed upon their canopied bed. “Ah, what an evening.”

  “You drank too much champagne punch,” Rafael said, and leaning up on his elbow beside her, kissed her soundly.

  “It will be dawn soon.”

  His gray eyes shone silver. “Yes,” he said, and gently cupped his hand over her breast. “Yes,” he said again, and began kissing her even as his fingers kneaded her soft flesh. He gauged her response and felt like the greatest male alive. He raised his head, and without a word flipped her over onto her stomach. Victoria turned to look at him, but he simply shook his head. She felt his fingers on the fastenings of her gown.

  When he turned her over again onto her back, he very slowly pulled her gown down, baring her breasts. “Ah, how very nice,” he said with great inadequate sincerity. He leaned down and began kissing her, his tongue soft and hot on her flesh.

  “I’ve thought about doing this all evening,” he said, his fingers replacing his mouth. “And I’ve thought a great deal about this ugliness you’re hiding from me. Do you know that I have yet to see you naked, Victoria? Completely naked just for me?”

  He saw the flash of fear in her eyes, felt her stiffen, withdraw from him. “There is something you’re ashamed of, isn’t there?” There was surprise in his voice. “Is there truly, Victoria?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  She shook her head, not looking at him.

  “Then I shall simply have to discover this so-called ugliness for myself.” He began to pull down her gown. Victoria took him off guard, twisting suddenly upward and rolling away from him as she sat up.

  “No.” She eased off the end of the bed and stood staring at him, holding her gown up over her breasts. “Please, Rafael, no, no.”

  He didn’t move. “This is crazy, Victoria. You are my wife. Do you intend to hide from me for the next fifty years?”

  She looked at him helplessly.

  “I’m not a particularly cruel man, nor am I a wife-beater,” he said, his voice cold now. He got up from the bed and began pulling off his evening garb, ignoring her completely.

  She would tell him when she wanted to. He would not beg her. He would not force her. However, he could and would be as angry with her as he liked, damn her.

  What the devil was this blasted ugliness? he wondered over and over before he fell asleep, Victoria’s uneven breaths sounding in the silence of their bedchamber.

  The guests were slow to rise the following morning, but Victoria was up early. She fetched Damaris from Nanny Black and took her to the stable. She wanted the child’s uncritical company. Flash was shaking his head as he saddled Toddy for her. “All those bleedin’ rich coves,” he said in the most mournful voice she’d ever heard. “And here I was with itching fingers the whole night long. I keep telling the captain that I’ve got to keep my hand in.”

  Victoria tried to commiserate as best she could, going so far as to offer her own pockets for his practice. Flash thanked her gravely for her offer and said he would think about it. Victoria promised that she would carry something of value in her pockets to make it worth his while. They parted amicably.

  They rode to Fletcher’s Pond, and Victoria watched Damaris feed the squawking ducks. Clarence, the fat old fellow—at least Victoria assumed he was a fellow, since he was certainly perverse and obnoxious enough to be one—pecked at the little girl’s legs when he felt he wasn’t getting his share of bread.

  Damaris shrieked in delight.

  Victoria smiled and lay back, breathing in the sweet-smelling grass. Soon the Indian summer would be over and winter would settle over Cornwall. Next week it would be All Hallows’ Night. Perhaps next week she and Rafael could leave Drago Hall. It was a wonderful thought. Her brow furrowed. He was furious with her because she was hiding the truth from him. She had to resolve the matter, she simply had no choice, not anymore. . . .

  Victoria jerked awake, momentarily disoriented. She shook her head, calling out at the same time, “Damie! Damie!”

  She jumped to her feet. “Oh, my God. Damaris!”

  How long had she slept? A moment . . . an hour? She felt terror wash over her and forced herself to take several deep breaths. She looked out over Fletcher’s Pond. Not a ripple. No, she would have heard if Damaris had fallen in. And the water was so very shallow, even for a three-year-old child.

  She called her name several more times. No Damaris. With shaking hands Victoria untethered Toddy’s reins and hoisted herself onto her mare’s back. Stay calm, Victoria, for God’s sake, stay calm. Damaris couldn’t have gone far.

  What if she fell into Fletcher’s Pond?

  Victoria shook her head at the unspoken thought. No, she thought, no, she couldn’t accept that. She urged Toddy forward and began to make a small circle about Fletcher’s Pond. The maple and beech trees were still summer-thick, the leaves just beginning to turn into riotous colors. Every few moments, Victoria called Damaris’s name.

  Suddenly she drew Toddy to a halt. Just beyond the woods to her right was the property line. And a fence. And just beyond that fence was Sir James Holywell’s prize bull.

  Damaris was fascinated by that mean, surly old bull. Victoria had told her at least a dozen times that she was never, ever to go near the fence.

  She kicked Toddy unceremoniously in the sides. Toddy jumped forward. Within three minutes Victoria pulled her to a halt beside the fence.

  She saw the bull. Then she saw Damaris.

  A scream froze in her throat. The child was walking slowly and quite fearlessly toward the bull, her small hand held out, a piece of bread on her palm.

  “Damaris,” she called, trying to keep the abject terror from her voice, “Damaris, come here.”

  “I want to pat the bull, Torie,” Damaris called back, not slowing one little bit. “I’ll feed him, just like Clarence.”

  Victoria leapt from Toddy’s back, vowing if she could but get Damaris to safety, she would spank her but good. She scrambled over the fence and jumped to the hard ground on the other side. “Damaris,” she called again, her voice as cajoling as she could make it, “come here and help me, won’t you? That bull is silly and doesn’t like children, nor does he like bread.”

  “No, Torie,” called Damaris. “He’ll like me just like Clarence does.”

  At that moment the bull saw the child. He snorted loudly and pawed the rocky ground with one huge hoof. He was ready to charge.

  Victoria began running toward the bull, yelling at the top of her lungs to get his attention from Damaris. She ripped off a piece of her petticoat as she ran, and began waving it frantically, yelling like a Bedlamite.

  She stumbled suddenly on a sharp, outcropping rock, and fell hard, onto her knees. She felt a searing pain shoot up her left thigh. She ignored it, coming up again to her feet and waving the material at the bull.

  Finally he turned to face her.

  “Run, Damaris! Run, do you hear me? The bull isn’t like Clarence, he hates you. Run!”

  The child finally paid her some attention. Still, she just stood there, looking undecided.

  At that moment Rafael came from the line of beech trees along the perimeter of Fletcher’s Pond. He heard Victoria yelling, saw the bull, saw Damaris, and felt his blood run cold. He wheeled Gadfly about, then turned him sharply and dug in his heels. Gadfly sailed gracefully over the fence, landing on the other side not too far from the bull.

  “Victoria,” Rafael called, “run. Grab Damaris and get over that fence.”

  She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t, but her fear clamped down on her pain, and she began running, like an awkward lame duck, dragging her leg, forcing it to move. She could feel tears stinging the back of her eyes, could feel the salty liquid coursing down her cheeks. She didn’t slow until she’d grabbed Damaris, tucked her under one arm, and run once again toward the fence. She heaved the child through the narrow rails, then dropped like a stone to her kne
es. A searing pain lanced through her. She was too large to squeeze through the rails and there wasn’t a chance in the world that she could climb over the fence. She sat there helpless and watched Rafael distract Sir James’s prize bull.

  Finally the bull backed away from the man and horse, turned, and ambled toward a huge elm tree, tail swishing.

  Rafael turned Gadfly about and rode him toward the fence. He let the stallion take the fence at his own pace, then immediately pulled him up and dismounted. He dropped to his knees beside Damaris. He looked her over carefully, clasped her small shoulders, and said, “You will stay right here. If you move, I will spank your backside until you are yelling all the way to Truro. What you have done is more stupid than I can say. Don’t move. Do you understand me, Damaris?”

  Two huge tears fell down the child’s cheeks.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes, Uncle.”

  “Don’t move.”

  He climbed over the fence and dropped beside Victoria on the other side.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice calm, dreadfully so.

  “Yes.”

  But she wasn’t. He saw the tears on her cheeks, saw the pain in her eyes. “Where did you hurt yourself, Victoria?”

  “No place new,” she said, and let herself lean toward him. He put his arms around her. He held her, saying nothing, until he became aware that she was rubbing her leg. He frowned.

  “No place new,” he repeated. Slowly he eased her against a fencepost. “Don’t move,” he said. He pushed her hand away, then began to pull up her riding skirt.

  “No, please, Rafael—”

  “Shut up, damn you.”

  There was no hope for it now. She closed her eyes against the awful pain and the censure and revulsion she was certain she would see in his eyes once he bared that leg.

  She heard the rip of her underthings. She heard him suck in his breath.

  “Oh, my God.”

  20

  What cannot be altered must be borne.

  —THOMAS FULLER