Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

She realized her hand was shaking, not from fear, but from pure, clean rage. The bastard.

Rafael mounted his new stallion, Gadfly, that he’d purchased the day before from Viscount Newton, and clicked the white-stockinged bay forward. The stallion was strong, a good sixteen hands high, and was sweet-tempered to boot. Rafael didn’t know if he could handle a stallion that was a devil, and he hadn’t been stupid enough to try. His legs were used to the rolling deck of the Seawitch, not clamping about the belly of a horse.

“Let’s go, boy,” he said near Gadfly’s twitching ear. “It’s to London we’re going.” Rafael had bidden goodbye to his crew earlier, and to Hero, of course, his scruffy savior.

“You’ll be careful,” Rollo said.

“No more brandy,” Flash added, trying to pet a struggling Hero.

Rafael merely grinned. “Keep the repairs going,” he said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He absently rubbed Hero’s chin. “Keep our Romeo here safe. I don’t want him to be a dog’s sport.”

“Ha,” said Flash. “I pity any beast who’d take him on.”

Rafael grinned as he remembered Flash’s further descriptions of Hero, his temperament, his morals, and his character. Hero the Plague was his favorite epithet. He sighed, gently tugging on Gadfly’s reins to turn him onto the left-branching road out of Falmouth. He didn’t want to go to London. He didn’t particularly want to see Lord Walton. He wanted nothing more to do with any of it, now that they had seen fit to dismiss him. Well, that wasn’t really what had happened, he admitted grudgingly. It was simply that he’d ridden on the edge too long and had been found out. It was bound to happen, and it had. At least he was still whole-hide. He wondered, though, very often, what he was going to do with himself now. Something that mattered, something that would make him content.

He would be riding quite close to Drago Hall. The temptation was great, but even as he smelled the familiar sea air and took in the countryside, he knew it wouldn’t be wise to stop. Not yet.

He would return and then he would remain.

He reached Truro by noon and stopped at one of his favorite inns, the Pengally. He wasn’t at all surprised to be greeted by the host, Tom Growan, as Lord Drago. So, he thought, even though five years had passed, he and his brother still looked alike. He had halfway hoped that Damien would have gained flesh, gone bald, lost a tooth or two. He laughed at himself. He corrected Growan.

“Master Rafael? By all that’s holy, is it really ye, lad?”

“Aye, Tom, it’s really me, the black sheep.”

“Nay, boy, don’t prattle like that. Come along, and the missis will feed ye up right and proper.”

The missis fed him and hovered. All the while, Tom questioned him, as bold as brass, no reticence at all in Cornishmen.

“I have business in London, Tom, but I’ll return shortly. Aye, I’ll build my own place. Er, how is the baron?”

Tom merely shrugged. “About the same as ever, I suppose. Don’t see him all that often, not anymore.”

Tom talked on, but Rafael didn’t glean any satisfying information. He took his leave and rode out of Truro, heading east. He would ride within miles of Drago Hall. He felt something deep stir inside him as he neared St. Austell. Boyhood memories flooded him. Most of them good until he remembered his sixteenth year.

The year he’d realized his twin hated him. The year his twin had proved his hatred.

God, Rafael thought, and spurred the tireless Gadfly forward. He rode hard until he reached Lostwithiel, and stopped there for the night at the Bodwin Inn. There was no lovely barmaid there, but there was stargazy pie, a treat he hadn’t enjoyed for years. But he found that the pilchards, with their heads poking out of the crust, took him aback for a moment. He’d become a faintheart, he thought, and shoved a particularly loathsome pilchard head beneath the crust. He took to his bed early. Tomorrow he would ride until he dropped.

He left early the next morning and didn’t stop until he’d reached Liskeard. Gadfly was sweating and blowing hard. He didn’t want to change horses so it meant a good rest for Gadfly. He spent several hours exploring the old town with its Norman towers and ancient cobbled streets. Later he swung Gadfly toward the sheltered south coast, remarking the palm trees, the balmy breezes, and thinking of the similarity to the Virgin Islands.

It was almost nine o’clock in the evening and he was nearing Axmouth. The night was cloudy, with but a sliver of moon, and very warm for the end of September. It was a night for smugglers, he thought, grinning to himself. He wasn’t tired and decided to push on. The curiosity from his youth brought him to a sheltered cove just south of Axmouth. He dismounted and quietly tethered Gadfly to a palm tree. Soon enough he heard voices, low yet perfectly distinct. He smiled, staying perfectly still, listening.

“Eh, a good haul, Toby.”

Brandy, no doubt, Rafael thought, peering through the thick bushes toward the beach. Excellent, very expensive French brandy. He wasn’t stupid; he made himself as invisible as he could and made not a single sound. Smugglers were a funny lot. If threatened, they were violent. He had no intention of announcing his presence.

“My Gawd, Bobby, did ye hear that?”

Rafael blinked. He’d made no noise.

“By all that’s holy, ’tis a female. Up there, Bobby. Hey, wait, ye!”

A female? What female would be out here?

He heard a scream, then sounds of a scuffle. He sighed deeply.

“Hold still, missy. Gawd, she’s a beauty, Toby. Just look at that pretty face.”