Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

He had meant just a simple sweet kiss, that was all. It was her response, instant and hot, that had made him do more than he’d intended to do. He hadn’t meant to humiliate her or taunt her. He’d pulled back because . . . He wasn’t sure. He was honest enough with himself not to close himself up in a complex lie of his own making just to soothe his own conscience. He would have to think about it. Marriage, he thought as he strode into his own bedchamber, marriage was a mess, a bloody complicated mess.

What was her damned confession?

Victoria sent Mrs. Ripple a message through Lizzie. She had no intention of facing her husband across the dining table, at least not this evening. He’d done her in yet again. It was because he’d caught her off guard. If she’d but known that he was going to kiss her, she could have prepared herself, made certain that she would show nothing but absolute disinterest. Even when he fitted her against the length of him? She bit her lip, remembering the shadow of those feelings, feelings so intense, so powerful, that she’d been utterly helpless. Was she a trollop? Did a trollop have such feelings?

No. Now he was making her wonder about herself, damn him. She’d felt nothing but revulsion with Damien, and simply nothing at all with David. It was Rafael Carstairs who seemed to have the magic that made her crazy with need and passion, at least she supposed it was passion. She might as well admit it. She wanted him, desperately, whatever that entailed. All it entailed.

She finished her bath and wrapped herself in a warm towel. It was going to be a long evening.

Downstairs in the dining room, Rafael was sitting at the table in splendid isolation. He’d botched it again, royally, he thought as he forced himself to eat a reasonable portion of Mrs. Ripple’s rabbit stew. How could anyone ruin a stew? he wondered. After all, it was prepared in a pot, all of it. How could the potatoes be raw and the carrots overcooked?

He stayed at the table, a bottle of port at his elbow long after Mrs. Ripple had taken the stew remains to what he hoped was a final interment. He had no intention of drinking himself into insensibility again. He thought about Drago Hall and his brother. It was a deeper division now, with Victoria as his wife. A chasm that would never be breached.

And he thought about the assignment he’d accepted from Lord Walton. Why, he wondered sourly, couldn’t it be something to do with smuggling? That was something he knew about, had known about since he was three years old. But a revival of the Hellfire Club? It seemed ridiculous and nonsensical, save for the savage rape of Viscount Bainbridge’s daughter. He wondered, a crooked smile on his face, if when he arrived in Cornwall he would hear of Strange Happenings as well. Well, no matter. This group of dissolute young men would have to be stopped and the identity of the shadowy figure known as the Ram made known. Ram, Rafael thought, as in masculine animal, as in horns that represented a phallus. He determined to check the small library in Honeycutt Cottage on the morrow for any works on witchcraft and covens and the like.

He fretted with nervous energy until nine o’clock, when he took himself outside for a long walk. The night was overcast, the half-moon veiled by gray clouds that crossed in front of it in thin wisps. What to do about Victoria? He really had no idea how she, or he, for that matter, would be treated at Drago Hall. He would do his best to prevent any insults to her. He also knew that if she was Damien’s lover, he was throwing her back into his brother’s waiting arms and bed. He would sleep with her himself, damn her, and that way he would know where she was every night.

I want you to believe me and trust me before we consummate the marriage.

“Oh, Victoria, what the devil am I going to do with you?”

There was only the wind rustling through the oak trees to give any reply. He missed the sea, the endless days and nights, the heavy sun, the restless storms, the continuous test of man against nature. He wondered how he would settle down on land with the firm earth beneath his feet, if he ever really would. He grunted, kicking a stone out of his path. If he and Victoria continued on their present course, she would doubtless be cheering to see him off on the Seawitch for a six-month voyage.

With those thoughts, he wondered if Victoria had ever been on the water, if she knew, perhaps, how to sail. She would be a good sailor, he thought, she had guts and steadiness. He determined to buy a sloop once they’d settled down in Cornwall.

He also determined before he was chased into Honeycutt Cottage by a sudden thunder shower that he was prepared to lie. Why not? He wanted her, very much, and she was his damned wife. Yes, he would tell her, straight in her beautiful face, that he trusted her, believed in her. Then he would make love to her. Then, finally, he would know.

He lit a candle and made his way upstairs to his bedchamber. It wouldn’t take very much effort on his part, he thought, pausing a moment in front of her bedchamber door, to make her want him. Lord, he’d kissed her, caressed her just a bit, and she’d yielded to him as surely and completely as if he’d been fondling her for hours. He ducked his head, hearing Damien’s words again in his mind. “Forget Damien,” he said aloud to his shadowed bedchamber. “Forget his damnable accusations.”

Rafael stripped off his clothes, folded them neatly, as was his habit, and smoothed them down over the back of a wing chair. He found himself gazing toward the adjoining door and wondering if she had locked it against him. Probably. She was angry enough to spit. Surely she’d locked the door, perhaps even pushed a dresser in front of it. The trick was, he thought, to catch her unawares. She was at her most unaware during sleep. He could make her so wild for him that by the time she was fully awake she would want him so badly she wouldn’t fight him.

It was a low trick.

He was even willing to admit that it edged very near to the despicable.

If he were in her shoes, he would be so furious, at least later he would, that he would consider the destruction of his manhood the only worthy revenge.

Best wait. Test the waters on the morrow. Soften her up a bit. At least give it another try. He’d royally mucked it up today. Dammit, he was used to men’s company, to their vagaries and aberrations and sins. Not women’s.

Of course most of the women he’d known had been like Lindy. Warm, passionate, yielding, and expecting nothing from him that he didn’t want to give.

They sat across from each other at breakfast the following morning. Rafael eyed the runny eggs and the limp, greasy bacon with revulsion and helped himself to muffins that appeared edible.

Victoria was listless and Rafael saw the shadows beneath her eyes. He didn’t like it, not one bit. He said abruptly, “What do you know of witchcraft in Cor

nwall?”

That got her attention. She paused in the act of crumbling a muffin and looked over at him. “No more or no less than most people, I suppose. There are those who do practice witchcraft, and I heard there was a coven near St. Austell. Why?”

He shrugged, took a bite of the blueberry muffin, and realized belatedly that it was raw in the middle. He manfully chewed and swallowed, then selected a piece of dry toast. He said, “You know, if we ever have an argument with the marquess, we can tell him what a marvelous cook Mrs. Ripple is. Convince him to come here and sample her delights. Revenge indeed.”

“She tries very hard.”

“I think I will give her a brief holiday and take over the kitchen myself. What do you think?”

“I think that between us we could cook the eggs and fry the bacon.”

He grinned at her. “Let’s do it.” Without letting the proverbial moss grow on the stone, Rafael called out for Mrs. Ripple. She appeared, apron on, her hands dusty with flour, and Victoria shot Rafael a look. He managed to keep a straight face.