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.
“Captain Fleming?” Gwenyth Killigrew shifted to look over her shoulder at him. She frowned in confusion. “Are you well?”
Rafe opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, only a garbled sound as pathetic as the child’s moan. He staggered toward the door and out into the air, breathing deeply to stave off the dizziness.
The woman’s voice followed him from the cottage. “A bit squeamish for one o’ the Gentlemen, ain’t he?”
Bent over with hands upon his knees, head hanging limply beneath his shoulders, Rafe felt like a complete and utter idiot.
He had only a few moments before he drowned.
The wave broke over his head, washing him under the tangle of broken spars and rigging. For a handful of heartbeats he held his breath as each swell pushed him farther and farther into the wreck of the ship. With a frantic kick, he cleared the surface, gasping in salty air to fill his burning lungs. He reached for a remnant of decking floating just beyond his arms. His fingers grazed the edge of the rough wood. He kicked and tried to swim toward it, but his legs tangled in the submerged shrouds. Like eels they wound about his ankles, floated up and over his knees until he was stuck fast. So close to safety, yet unable to gain purchase upon the slippery board.
The cold, storm-tossed sea sucked the warmth from his body, chilling his limbs, numbing his responses. Soon he would exhaust himself with the fight. Already the roar of the squall faded into his muzzy brain. He reached—stretched, using every last ounce of strength within him. The board bobbed and slipped farther away from his grasp. Another wave broke upon him. This time he did not try to gasp a saving breath. There was no time, and no point.
The ship, with a final groan like that of a dying man, rolled upon its side and slid beneath the water. The shrouds twisted around his body. He cursed as he looked upon the sky one last time before he was dragged under…
Gwenyth came awake with a start, her breathing ragged as if she were the one pulled beneath the wreckage. Wipi
ng a hand across her face, she encountered tears. She’d been weeping again.
Cothey, woken by her movement, stalked to the head of the bed. He rubbed against her, mewing his concern before curling upon her pillow.
Lying back, Gwenyth stared up into the gray of the rafters. Birds called in the bushes outside, and footsteps sounded beyond her door as the first fishermen passed her cottage on their way to the harbor. She inhaled, savoring the scents of the hanging herbs surrounding her—soothing her. They expunged the smell of salty spray that pervaded the dream. They pushed the vision of the man’s drowning back into the recess of her mind that brought him forth time after time, year after year. By now she’d memorized every sway of the sinking ship, every struggle of the man in the water, every thought that ran through his head as he fought to stay afloat.
Years of experience told Gwenyth that sleep was at an end. She rose, throwing on a gown, tying her hair up in a kerchief. If sleep wasn’t an option, then she would work.
At the hearth, she lifted off the curfew covering the remains of her fire. Busied herself with flint and kindling. Soon a blaze cheered the room, dispelling the last tattered edges of her dream.
Gwenyth rose, dusting ashes from her shift.
“Keeping a lover’s tryst?”
The sleepy drawl sent her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around to find Rafe watching her from a chair by the window. Any other time, her response would have been quick and cutting. Captain Fleming’s arrogant manner infuriated her, and she would have been happy to make him feel the full force of her displeasure. She even saw him tense as if he awaited her attack. But as the pressure built behind her eyes, the power enough to peel the sly mockery from his voice, she felt his desperation heavy and thick in the air.
The words on the tip of her tongue suddenly tasted bitter and cruel in her mouth. She caught them back, mumbling, “I couldn’t sleep.”
Dropping her gaze to the floor, she closed her eyes, pushing the Sight down deep within her, restraining it as if she chained a wild animal.
“With sleep comes dreams,” he said, almost to himself. “Things best left buried.”
Gwenyth’s eyes flew open as she swallowed hard, her whole body going still. How had he known? Surely, he carried no gift of Sight. Not even Jago sensed the shiver of power that came with the kenning.
He glanced out the window. She noted the harbor framed in the glass behind him, the rocks of the breakwater gleaming black against the silver-gray of the sea. Her pulse slowed as she understood. “You dream of your ship.”
His face hardened into tight lines over his chiseled cheek bones. “I dream of six ships. And a drumbeat that echoes around my head until I feel as if my skull will split in two.”
He ran an unsteady hand through hair that fell long, brushing against the tan of his shoulders. The broad muscles of his chest flexed as he shifted in his seat, wincing and catching a hand to his ribs as he did so. He caught her watching him and grimaced. “It’s healing, but it stings like the devil.”
Gwenyth’s skin prickled, and an unwelcome heat formed deep in her belly. How could this man annoy her and intrigue her all at the same moment? It wasn’t fair.
She hid her discomfort by turning away, busying herself with preparations for leaving. “Be grateful you’re still alive to complain. An inch in any direction and you’d have died before the boat reached the beaches,” she snapped.
A smile curved the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take your waspishness as a sign that you care. But I have to say your nursely compassion leaves a lot to be desired.”
Gwenyth suppressed a laugh. She wouldn’t let go of her anger. It wouldn’t do for him to get ideas. The ones he had were bad enough. And the ones she was beginning to entertain were downright dangerous. She prepared her basket, humming as she packed her heavy leather gloves, a trowel and spade for digging, a slender-bladed knife.
“Where are you going?” he asked, the sarcasm gone and now only a quiet interest in his voice.
She made herself face him. He leaned forward in the chair, watching her, staring almost. But there was no boldness in his gaze, and she tried to smile as she slung her bag across her shoulder. “To gather and restock my supplies. I’ll be back by nightfall.”
Cothey jumped into his lap, burrowing his head into Rafe’s middle. He relaxed, the mischief dancing in his eyes as he stroked the tabby. Gwenyth cast a baleful glare at the traitorous feline, purring as he kneaded Rafe’s chest.
“And will you still be humming ‘Black-Eyed Susan’ when you return?” he asked. “I know another in the same vein. ‘O why went he sailing from his own dear shore, For to face those great storm winds and the seas that do roar.’” His voice was deep and powerful, but she felt a thread of sadness hidden under the bravado. “‘I said when we parted and he swore to come again, My heart tells me, my true love, I shall see you no more.’”
She hadn’t been aware of her song and flushed with annoyance. Both ballads spoke of the sea and the loss of a lover. It was obvious the dream lingered in the shadows of her mind, and that Captain Fleming’s stay needed to end—soon.
“You’ll have every cat in the village coming to answer such caterwauling,” she mocked, hoping to turn his penetrating gaze aside. He saw and seemed to understand too much for her comfort.
Without waiting for an answer, she was out the door.
“It’ll be lonely without you,” he called after her. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
She strode up the lane, her face flaming.
Someone to watch and wait for her return.
Someone to love her.
She choked back the traitorous thought with another. One that burned clear in her mind.
Someone to drown, leaving her alone with her grief and her memories.
No. Never.
Rafe sat and whittled, the scrap of wood slowly taking shape beneath his hand. Beyond the window, the afternoon light faded. Gwenyth had never brought up his shameful cowardice when faced with the child’s injury, and relieved, Rafe let it sink beneath the surface. How could he explain the unexplainable to her? How could he make her understand how he could watch men destroy one another without batting an eye, but to see men attempt to put those same broken bodies back together made him dizzy and sick? He couldn’t, and so he kept silent and let her think what she would.
She’d left before sunrise this morning, but as she readied herself, Rafe had watched her with drowsy contentment as well as with a maddening hunger that grew with each hour spent in her presence.
To feel that ribbon of gold spill across his chest, to remove that gown and uncover the soft warm flesh beneath, to taste the summer sweetness of her lips filled his dreams. She’d made sure he knew to keep his distance, but when had that ever stopped him before? No, something about her made him keep away, hold his tongue. Whether it was her gift of kenning or her regal bearing—hell, she moved with more grace than his mother—it didn’t matter. The results were the same, this mounting ache to take her as his own, and no way to quell it that would not drive her further away.
But now it was dusk, and she hadn’t yet returned. Could she have fallen? Could gypsies or tinkers have come across her? He scoffed at such notions. She was a grown woman and had tramped these hills and cliffs for years before his arrival. But as the sun sank beneath the waves, and the tread of feet outside his door grew quiet, he found himself whittling less and worrying more.
He lit a lamp as the light dimmed. Gwenyth’s cats appeared, awaiting their supper, but still no sign of her. Rafe stood, dusting shavings from his breeches. His side still throbbed, but the wound smelled clean, the edges knitting quickly. He paced as he toyed with the idea of going out in search of her. It was madness. He’d be lost in the dark before he’d gone more than a mile. But to hell with it. Standing around here wasn’t getting him anywhere.
His decision made, he reached for the latch…and the door opened. She stood upon the threshold, hair loose about her shoulders.
A sly smile brightened her face. “I was thinking visions were only a Killigrew curse. Do the Flemings suffer from such fits as well?”
“Only when provoked,” Rafe replied from between clenched teeth.
At her teasing, his earlier hesitation vanished. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him. His other hand curled around her side, his thumb resting just beneath her breast. With one brush he could caress her nipple until it stood taut with desire. With one tug he could draw her to his pallet upon the floor and discover the ripe flesh and sweet honey he knew existed beneath her unflappable calm.
He waited for the storm of protest, but none came. Her eyes met his for an instant before she closed them and stepped into his embrace. He lowered his mouth to hers, feeling the soft warmth of her lips, the press of her body against him. He tasted the sweetness of wild strawberries in her kiss and smelled the crisp wind off the sea in her hair.
“Mistress?” came a small voice.
Startled, Rafe fell back, dropping his arm to his side. Gwenyth took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, before turning around. A small boy, no more than ten, stood in the doorway, eyes wide as he peered at Rafe.
Rafe’s pulse thundered, his body all too aware of the space between himself and Gwenyth, but she smiled, irritatingly unruffled despite the kiss they just shared.
“This is Jacob Landry. His mother’s in labor, and they’ve sent for me. I’m sorry you’ve worried, but you can see I’m fine. I’ve come home only to gather a few things.”
She pushed past Rafe and began to move from cabinet to cupboard, preparing a bag to take with her. Rafe looked from her to the small boy. “Where does the family live?” he asked.
“South of here near Laneglos. If we hurry I can be there in an hour.”
Dangerous Magic Page 3
