The shadows of evening had lengthened into night. Clouds covered the waxing moon, and a spitting rain had begun. “You can’t go alone.”
She looked up. “Can’t? Don’t be daft. Besides, I’ll have Jacob for company.” She rummaged among a cupboard of stoppered bottles.
“The boy’s thin as a whip and barely out of shortcoats.” Rafe ignored Jacob’s offended look and crossed toward Gwenyth. He knelt on his haunches beside her. “He’ll do you no good should you run into trouble.”
“And what sort of trouble do you think I’ll find on a night like this?” She laughed, rising to dust her skirts. “Mayhap smugglers?”
Pulling the flap closed upon her bag, she started for the door. Rafe remained where he was, exasperated and excited. The feel of her kiss lingered. He tasted her on his tongue. How far would she have gone if the boy hadn’t been there? He’d never know, and that just made him ache with renewed frustration.
Gwenyth grabbed a cloak from a peg by the door. Ushering Jacob ahead of her, she turned back to catch Rafe’s eye. “Coming then? Or do you expect me to fight off the villains alone?”
Chapter 4
The beer made another round. Rafe tipped his mug back, the last few smoky-bitter drops sliding into his empty stomach with a thud like grape shot. How much of the horrible stuff had he downed during the empty hours he’d been kicking his heels outside the Landry cottage? Hard to say. No sooner was one pitcher emptied by the group of waiting men than another replaced it and the circuit began once more.
Lamps burned low and were filled. Dice emerged from someone’s pocket. Laughter and conversation flowed as freely as the beer until tongues loosened and heads swam.
Rafe accepted another mugful from a brawny-shouldered farm boy who never quite met his eyes. Passed the pitcher along to the expectant husband whose attention, despite the men’s best attempts, remained divided between his wife’s confinement and the unexpected stranger in their midst.
“She and the babe will be fine, Tom. Naught to worry you,” one man offered with a comforting nudge.
“Aye, the witch will see she comes to no harm,” agreed another.
“Wish she’d see to me,” was the good-natured ribald response from a third.
Rafe shot the man a sharp look as he tossed back another throat-clawing swallow.
“Careful, Scobey,” Tom Landry chuckled. “You’re upsetting our guest. He’s liable to call you out for impugning the fine lady’s honor.”
The men’s attention swung toward Rafe who stiffened beneath their curious scrutiny. They’d unbent enough to welcome him into their circle, but they remained wary of his presence. Their mistrust alive in their lamp-lit gazes and the questions they dared not ask.
He answered their regard with a dangerous stare of his own. If they assumed he shared Gwenyth’s bed, so be it. It wasn’t any of their damned business that she persisted in regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and long-suffering amusement. And yet tonight, she’d not only accepted his kiss but returned it with unfeigned ardor. For a moment his life had settled like sand in a glass. He’d envisioned a future of belonging, uncomplicated and safe—with Gwenyth at his side. It had been as real as her cottage, the firelight and the warmth of her body in his arms.
“The witch frightens me,” piped up a young farmer, his chin ruddy with a new beard. Laughter greeted this confession, but the man stood his ground. “I don’t care how beautiful she is, I’d not want a wife who could pick through my head like plucking stones from the shoreline.”
Landry leaned forward to accept the pitcher. “Jonah’s right. Miss Killigrew may be uncommon pretty but it would be an uncomfortable life for a man to live with one touched by the fairy-folk. No doubt on it.”
The mountain of a man beside Rafe hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat with a wide, leering smile. “I’d take my chances for just that reason. Think on the advantages, lads. A wife to warn you of poor harvests or rising prices. Storms or bonny weather. To be at your back making certain the feed dealer’s not swindling you at the scales or the shopkeeper at the counter. The Witch of Kerrow’s gift of Sight could be a mighty useful tool in the right hands.”
One or two nodded, but neither the older Landry nor young Jonah looked entirely convinced.
A new pitcher made its way back to Rafe. He grabbed it, but his mind remained anchored on the explosion of a thought.
To warn you. To be at your back.
An elbow nudged him in his bandaged ribs, the edges of a wild notion vanishing in a shock of eye-watering pain. Taking a last swallow, he excused himself from the circle of men to wander the shadows beyond the lantern’s glow.
A useful tool, indeed.
Sarah Landry lay upon her bed, a group of women attending her. Sarah’s sister-in-law, Polly, held tight to her hand; Eliza Scobey worked the fire to keep the cottage warm. While Betsy Faull rubbed Sarah’s back, Gwenyth checked the baby’s progress. “Not much longer now.” When Sarah’s contractions grew closer, Gwenyth drew near. “Push, Sarah. Push down.”
For Sarah Landry this was baby number six. She knew what she had to do, and Gwenyth was naught much more than a witness.
“It’s coming, Gwenyth. The babe is coming. I can feel it.” Hands white-knuckle braced upon Polly’s shoulders, Sarah rolled up to rest upon her haunches.
Gwenyth guided the baby’s descent with a practiced touch of her fingers. “Easy, Sarah. One more push and you’ll be holding the mite.”
Sarah bore down, eyes squeezed shut, face red with effort. The baby dropped into Gwenyth’s hands with an angry wail.
“’Tis a girl child,” Gwenyth announced. “A beautiful girl to be spoilt by those five boys of yours and her father too.”
She wrapped the baby and handed her to Polly. “You did much to aid me today, Polly. I thank you for doing for Sarah while you waited on my coming.”
Polly Landry blushed under the praise. “I’d the easy doings, Gwenyth, but grateful to you, I am, for teaching me enough so I could help.”
Gwenyth finished with Sarah and washed her up while Polly cleaned and dried the baby. “You’ll be taking work away from me soon enough.”
“Never.”
“Oh aye, and probably a good thing. The villages south and east of here need a good healer and the women a midwife. You’ve the gentle touch, and women trust you. That’s important.” To Sarah, she said, “I’m leaving you with a tonic of cinchona bark and gentian root for weakness. Polly can help you with it. If you have need of me, send Jacob. If not, I’ll look in on you in a week or so.”
“Bless you, Gwenyth. We’ve some fine cheese, and Tom caught some fish for you as well. Will you be taking breakfast with us?”
Gwenyth looked to the door. She knew Rafe Fleming stood just beyond with the other men. He’d shadowed her all the way here, and, despite her assurances that she’d be quite safe, refused to leave. A tingling began in her stomach as she recalled the thoughtless kiss he’d pressed upon her. The damped power behind it leaving no doubt of how much more he could give if she only allowed him rein.
She refused to look too closely at why she’d permitted him such a liberty and not thrown him out on his ear. Or worse, shown him what she might do if she turned her gaze full on him. If he’d memories of a splitting headache before, it would be nothing to what she might do if threatened. But she hadn’t. She’d accepted his kiss and even returned it, enjoying the demanding heat of his lips, wondering at the swoop of her stomach when his fingers brushed her side. It was more than any man had ever elicited from her before. Until now, she’d been well able to separate her head from her heart. Not so with Captain Rafe Fleming. That was disturbing, and yet a little exciting.
She shrugged, disoriented for a moment. “No, I won’t be staying for breakfast. I’ve things that take me home.”
Sarah gave her a knowing smile. “Betsy says he’s comely to look on, though he doesn’t talk much.”
Gwenyth’s eyes widened slightly. “Who?”
&n
bsp; Sarah laughed. “The thing that takes you from us, or should I say the man.”
Betsy giggled. “Who is he? I’ve not seen him before. I’d have remembered a face like that.”
Gwenyth narrowed her gaze upon the flighty young bride. The power grew within her, but she clamped a tight lid upon it. She didn’t want to scare Betsy, but this was a treacherous turn of conversation. “A seaman? A deserter fleeing the press-gangs? ’Tis best if you don’t ask too many questions,” she suggested.
Betsy’s eyes darted back and forth. She gave a nervous smile and turned away to fold cloths over a rack by the fire.
“The single men will be green with envy,” Eliza said, breaking into the tension. “They’ve been following you about for years hoping you’d decide.”
Gwenyth pushed her unwelcome excitement back down where it couldn’t tempt her with ideas unlooked-for. “Well, I haven’t decided anything, so the men can keep their hopes to themselves.”
Eliza wiped her hands upon her apron, mouth spread in a wide smile. “I’m wishing the Aiken women turned their backs upon the men as the Killigrews did. I’d not now be washing, feeding and cleaning up after two sloppy men and their father.”
Betsy shrugged. “Oh I don’t know about that.” She glanced at Gwenyth with eyes full of pity. “It must be awful lonesome on a cold night. When I’m sad or lonely or I’ve dreamed ill, it’s comforting to wake and curl next to Jonah and know I’m safe and cared for.”
Gwenyth shuddered, thinking of the man and the ship and the awful helpless feeling she experienced as she watched the shrouds pull him under. It was ill dreaming that kept her from the love found in Jonah and Betsy Faull’s tiny cottage.
Polly brought the swaddled infant to Sarah who held out her hands, tucking the baby in against her breast with a practiced ease. “Well I haven’t seen the man, but it’s past time you should have a child about you.”
Gwenyth’s gaze lowered to the small head peeping from beneath its blanket. It grunted as it rooted for Sarah’s nipple, its little head fidgeting back and forth.
Sarah directed her attention to the hungry baby. The others turned to cleaning the room, and Betsy stepped out the door.
A pang seized Gwenyth beneath her ribs as she watched the child. A tingling ache flooded her breasts, and her eyes grew hot and scratchy. For some reason, her mind strayed to Captain Fleming. Sarah misunderstood the bond between Rafe and herself, assuming he was the chosen one, the man who would give her what she needed to fulfill her destiny and pass along her gifts to the next Killigrew daughter.
But was it such a stretch to imagine him fathering her child? She’d tried keeping her distance, but she couldn’t deny the draw between them, an attraction that, though kept under tight restraints, simmered beneath the surface. Why, she didn’t know. Attractive, he may be: tall and lean with eyes that reminded her of mist-covered hills or the froth of a swift-moving stream. But there had been men in the past more polished and more charming. Suitable he was not: captain of a smuggling vessel, a rogue and a criminal—and a gentleman. Despite his rough manners and coarse company, there was no mistaking his birth and his breeding. They branded him as surely as the lash marks scarring his back.
Betsy returned. “The men are fretting for some food before they leave for the fields. Your sailor’s asking for you, Gwenyth. It’s getting on to morning.”
Gwenyth broke her gaze from the baby, sighed and stretched. She patted Sarah’s hand. “She’s a fine girl.”
Sarah caught Gwenyth’s hand, squeezing it. “You’ll have a daughter of your own soon, and it don’t take the gift of Sight to tell me that.”
They walked side by side, not hurrying but in pleasant accord as they followed the road northwest to Kerrow. The lantern they carried was hardly needed as the sky paled and the first birds called in the hedges. Rafe drew in deep breaths of rain-sweet air, filling his lungs with the scents of good earth and growing things. It made him think of Bodliam and wish he were back in the southern countryside again. It made him yearn for home.
Soon, he told himself. Soon he would round the gate-house lodge, the curve of Bodliam’s dome swimming in and out of view between the heavy stands of oak and walnut. Soon the screech and cackle of gull and chough would be replaced by the whirr and chirp of pheasant and woodcock. Soon he would top the last hill and see the dark surface of the grotto’s lake to the north of the house, a quiet brooding place—a spot to ponder loss and betrayal and to grieve.
Would his family welcome him back, or had his disgrace placed him beyond the pale? He’d have his answer by month’s end.
He’d see her again—Anabel Hillier. There’d be no avoiding it. Even married to Charles she’d be home often to visit her family. She’d be a constant reminder of his past. But things were different now. He was different now—older, wiser, wealthier. He’d make her regret her greed.
He’d planned his homecoming over years. Imagined while curled in a Falmouth doorway, drunk and dreading the rough hand of the press-gang, the way he’d saunter nonchalantly into Bodliam’s main hall in his expensive tailored clothes. Pictured while he fished the pilchard shoals, his sour belly and splitting head making every pitch of the boat an agony, the astonishment then the respect in his family’s eyes once they realized he’d returned a wealthy nabob. And dreamed while he’d slid through a Revenue cutter’s shadow on a run between Cornwall and Brittany with a hold full of contraband and a mind full of secrets, of the day he’d have every hypocritical, self-serving Society matron yearning to catch him for a son-in-law.
The long years of plotting ended here.
His lips curled into a cold smile. Perhaps he’d toy with Anabel before he broke her. She’d be the one crushed and humiliated. Fitting for the woman who’d stripped him of so much.
Only the Navy had taken more.
Emerging from a stand of trees, they entered a wide, overgrown lawn. Grass stood waist-high. Brambles and runners of ivy and bindweed sought footholds among the high broken hedges and crept in tangled runners across the carriage drive. Gwenyth pushed on through the brush, but Rafe paused, looking about. At the head of the drive stood a house shaded by ash trees. Trailing vines sprouted from chimneys at either end of a slated roof. Creeper clung to the granite walls and weeds choked the entranceway, but the remnants of gravel paths and well-trimmed hedges were visible beneath the jungle of wilderness. It must have been a fair place once. The hidden windows, if cleared of debris, would gather the growing light in the east and send it streaming into the house’s dark rooms. A balustraded terrace ran the length of the west side of the house, looking out on a murky, choked stream that dipped across the property before disappearing into the trees.
Rafe started toward the house. “Where are we?”
Gwenyth Killigrew turned back. “Goninan, it’s called. She once was part of Rosevear, the estate of the Chynoweths whose lands we cross. But Goninan and Rosevear parted company well before my grandmother’s day, and now she stands vacant and alone. The stream there empties into a well. People still come now and again to drink from its healing waters.” Her lips turned up in a teasing smile. “Some say Goninan’s haunted.”
His mouth twitched with laughter. “Every other rock, spinney and glen in this accursed county is said to be haunted.”
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.”
Dangerous Magic Page 4
