Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

uld reconsider. I do just happen to have a message for you to take to Lord Walton.”

“I should have known. For someone who is no longer useful, I have experienced a fine resurrection.”

“Yes, I should think so. Now, shall we have a glass of Jamaica’s best rum? I have it from the Barretts’ plantation. It’s so smooth, your throat will think you’ve cocked up your toes and passed over.”

Rafael smiled. There was nothing else to do.

1

Drago Hall, St. Austell, Cornwall, September 1813

What bloody man is that?

—SHAKESPEARE

She heard the footsteps. His footsteps, eerie echoes down the long eastern corridor, closer, nearly to her door. Now they were slower, as if he were hesitating, but only for a moment, only long enough for her to feel a spurt of hope. Then louder, a lengthened stride, as if he were now hurrying. So close now.

Victoria stared straight ahead in the darkness. She sat up in her bed, her movements as silent as the clouded half-moon outside her window, terrified that somehow he would know that she was awake, that she was aware he was there. Her eyes never wavered from the bedchamber door.

The footsteps stopped. He was standing in front of her bedchamber door now. She could see him extending his hand, see his fingers flexing about the brass door handle, clasping it, squeezing it inward.

Nothing happened.

She wished she could see the large, old-fashioned brass key in the lock, her protection, her only protection against him.

She heard the door shake as he squeezed the handle, then, in frustration, shook it hard.

Why wouldn’t he go away? Oh, please, make him go away.

The key rattled loudly in the lock. He was exerting great pressure. Suddenly the heavy key fell to the floor, making a loud cracking sound on the bare wood, like a pistol shot. She jumped, stifling a cry.

There was no sound now. She could see his face changing as he came to understand the sound, see him becoming slowly enraged as he realized that she had locked him out. The door was strong and thick as Drago Hall itself. It wouldn’t yield.

She held her breath, waiting for him to call out.

Her heart pounded—loud, fast strokes. Could he not hear her heartbeat? Feel her fear of him?

She could see his gray eyes, darkening now, dilating with anger and cold in the night gloom of the vast eastern corridor. In the daylight they would be as light and clear as Ligger’s newly polished silver.

“Victoria?”

His voice was soft and compelling. She stuffed her fist in her mouth, not moving.

“Open the door, Victoria.”

Now the master’s voice, threaded with steel but still quiet, soft-sounding. She’d heard it rarely, normally directed at servants, and they’d been frantic to obey. She remembered once he’d turned on Elaine and spoken to her in that tone. Bright, strong Elaine had cowered.

What to do? She couldn’t answer him. Perhaps he would believe her asleep. The thought of him believing that she was deliberately disobeying him made her flesh crawl.

She’d come to live at Drago Hall at the age of fourteen after the marriage of her first cousin, Elaine Montgomery, to Damien Carstairs, Baron Drago. Victoria, starved for affection, had adored him then, seen him as the hero, the perfect gentleman, and he’d treated her with careless affection, giving her the kind of attention he occasionally bestowed on Elaine’s pug, Missie, or his small daughter, Damaris.

But no longer.

When had he begun to look at her differently? Six months ago? Nanny Black had teased her about being “late to grow on the stalk.” Whatever stalk was in question, evidently Damien now believed her grown enough. She wanted to yell at him, scream at him to leave her alone. She was his wife’s cousin, for pity’s sake. Didn’t a man owe loyalty and fidelity to his wife?

The minutes passed. He said nothing more. Her heart continued to pound in slow, loud strokes. The door handle rattled again suddenly, then abruptly stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. She heard his footsteps going away now, fainter and fainter down the eastern corridor.

She remembered suddenly the summer that one of his hunters had hurt its leg in a trap. He’d shot it. Then walked away, tossing his gun to one of the white-faced grooms.