Moonspun Magic (4 page)

“David?”

“Yes, David is riding with us. We will go to Fletcher's Pond and feed Clarence and his family.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Torie!”

Victoria ruffled Damie's black curls, thinking that she was the picture of her father. Except there was no cruelty in her clear gray eyes. Only innocence and eagerness and an only child's occasional petulance.

Victoria rose gingerly to her feet, feeling the slight strain in her left leg from the kneeling position. Nothing but a twinge, but it made her realize that this was something else she and David had never discussed before.

“Come on, Torie! Come! Come!”

“Little terror,” said Nanny Black fondly.

“I'll bring her back after luncheon,” Victoria said. “Come along, Damie, and we'll fetch Cook's picnic basket.” She took Damie's small hand and together they walked downstairs.

Victoria came to a startled halt at the foot of the wide staircase. There was David, standing very still, looking up at her. He was but four years her senior, ruddy-complexioned, his eyes dark brown, his hair a darker brown. He was slight of build, no masculine compliments coming to mind upon viewing him, but he was kind to her, always had been, and was soft-spoken. She had always liked him.

He was wearing buckskins. Victoria said immediately, “How very natty you look today, David. Doesn't he, Damie?”

“Natty,” said Damaris.

David wasn't smiling, nor did he smile now. He said only, “Are you ready?”

She searched his well-known face, feeling a moment of unease. She simply nodded.

“Must the child come today?”

“Come! Come!”

“Well, yes, I promised her, you see. I didn't know that you would mind. She will be feeding the ducks, David. It will occupy her.”

“Enjoy your outing, you two.”

Victoria forced herself to stay calm and turn easily at the sound of Damien's voice. He was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, his arms crossed over his chest, his head cocked to one side, studying them.

“Papa,” said Damaris, but she didn't release Victoria's hand.

“You make certain your cousin doesn't let you fall, my dear,” Damien said, not moving. “Esterbridge,” he said, nodding to David. With those words he turned and walked down the back hall toward the estate room.

“Come!” said Damaris, tugging at Victoria's hand.

“Yes, Damie.”

David walked a bit ahead of them toward the stables, and Victoria wondered at him. It occurred to her vaguely that his mustard-yellow riding jacket wasn't a felicitous color for him. It made him look bilious. A wifely thought, she decided, and kept her mouth shut.

Toddy, her mare, snorted when she saw Victoria. True to her habit, Victoria withdrew two cubes of sugar and laid them on her palm for the horse to eat.

“Come!”

“I'll give you a leg up, Victoria,” David said, and followed action to words. Once Victoria was settled on Toddy's back, he handed her Damaris. The child was squealing with delight and excitement. David didn't seem at all amused.

“Sit still, love,” Victoria said, encircling the wriggling little body firmly with her arms. She watched the stable lad, Jim, give David the food basket.

They rode down the long drive, eastward toward
Fletcher's copse and pond. There was no opportunity for them to speak of private matters with Damaris chattering constantly. The day was warm and clear, only scattered clouds dotting the blue sky.

“It's a lovely day,” Victoria said finally, smiling toward David.

“I suppose,” he said.

“I must speak to you.”

He looked at her now, and she saw his hand jerk unexpectedly on his horse's reins. His stallion snorted, danced sideways, nearly unseating him. Her eyes widened, but she said nothing more until he had his horse under control.

“Almost there!” shouted Damaris.

“Yes, love, very nearly.” What was wrong with David? He was looking at her oddly. Then she saw Damien in her mind's eye, standing there so smugly, looking at them, and she felt a sense of foreboding.

They dismounted near Fletcher's pond. David lifted Damaris down, gave her several slices of bread from Cook's basket, then watched her until she came to a halt a good three feet from the edge of the water.

“That's quite far enough,” Victoria called. “Ah, there's Clarence. You can begin their feast, Damie.”

The squawking of the ducks was very nearly deafening, and Damaris was completely oblivious of the two of them. Slowly David placed his hands around Victoria's waist and lifted her down. Victoria smiled up at him and lightly laid her hands on his coat lapels. “I will marry you if you still wish it,” she said, no preamble coming to mind, just the bald essence of the matter.

He stared down at her, saying nothing. Finally, “Why now, if I may inquire? You've turned me down every time I've asked since January.”

Oh, God, what to say? It hadn't occurred to her that he would wonder at her sudden agreement,
more fool she. She could hear her own voice reciting to him,
“I must leave Drago Hall before Damien ravishes me and I can only do that by marrying you and I don't love you but I swear to make you a good wife.”

“More bread!”

David watched her pull more slices from the paper wrap and toss them to Damaris. When she turned back, wiping her hands on her riding skirt, he felt a surge of immense longing for her. Until he remembered. “Well?”

“I think we should suit, David. There are a few concerns, though, and something I really must tell you.”

“What is this
something
?”

“Well, first, I am concerned about money. I haven't any.”

“Damien would provide a dowry, you must realize that. He wouldn't wish to appear niggardly and petty, and he would were he to simply send you off with only the clothes on your back.”

“Your father—”

“My father wants you. He is adamant, in fact, and has been for a very long time.”

That was a shock. “But why?”

David shrugged.

“Certainly he has always been kind to me, but a daughter-in-law shouldn't arrive on his doorstep as poor as a vicar's mouse.”

“I think I've already answered that. Now, Victoria, there is something else you should tell me, isn't there? You do intend to tell me more, do you not?”

She cocked her head to one side, wondering at him. He wasn't behaving as he normally did in her company. Damien, she thought. Damien had something to do with this. She said aloud, blurting it out, “What did Damien do? Did he tell you anything?”

“So,” said David. He laughed. “So, it is all there, for anyone to see. God, how blind I've been.”

“Blind? What are you talking about? What did Damien tell you?” She closed her eyes a moment against the ugly twisting of his lips. “It was not really so bad, was it?” Had he told David of her leg and its ugliness?

“I wouldn't have imagined it, nor would my father. I did think that I knew you, Victoria. But you deceived me. Made a complete and utter fool of me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dear God, I don't believe you. I didn't want to believe him—no, I didn't. How could you? He even told me about your mother. Inherited tendencies and all that, he said, trying to find excuses for you.”

Victoria gaped at him. “My mother? What is going on here, David?”

“You've as good as admitted it, damn you, Victoria. You actually believe I would still want you? Just you wait until I tell my father. He'll change his mind about you quickly enough.”

She tried to calm herself in the face of his utterly wild and unbelievable words. “David, I truly don't understand what this is all about. I haven't admitted anything.” He gave her a stony stare. “David, what did Damien tell you?” Her hands felt clammy, and she was becoming cold, terribly cold.

David laughed, a very unpleasant sound, but Victoria was too distraught to hear the pain in it. “Used goods, my dear, very used. Even by the baron. Your cousin's husband. How could you?”

“Used goods,” she repeated slowly, and she suddenly had the image of Molly pouring used bathwater back into the buckets to take them to another family member. She nearly giggled aloud. “Used goods,” she said again. “How ridiculous that sounds.”

“The baron hopes you're not with child, but he isn't certain, and said he couldn't let me marry you in good faith with the possibility that my heir could be a bastard. He wanted to warn me, to advise me, and I hated him for spewing out such filth about the girl I wanted to make my wife. But it isn't nonsense. Are you with child, Victoria? Is that why you wish to wed me now?”

So very cold, and so alone now. She nearly laughed aloud seeing herself as used goods, as some sort of package now retied with old string. Damien hadn't wasted time on irrelevant things. He'd gone immediately for the jugular. And David had lapped up all he'd said. She raised her chin and said only, “No.”

“No what? You have played me false, madam. I am leaving now and I don't wish ever to see you again.”

He sounded like a bad actor in a melodrama. She shook her head, trying desperately to clear it of extraneous images and thoughts. What had happened, what was happening, was real and it was now and it would affect her the rest of her life. “None of it is true, David. Damien lied to you.”

“Like mother like daughter,” David said. “That's what he thought, anyway. And your mother was a trollop.”

“Torie! Thirsty. Come!”

Victoria ignored Damaris. Anger flowed through her now. “Don't you dare speak of my mother like that. None of it is true and if you believe it, you're naught but a fool, David, a credulous, naive fool.”

David said nothing. She watched him untether his horse with jerky movements, then quickly mount. He stared down at her. “Lies, Victoria? Tell me then why you wish to marry me. Not for love, that is certain.”

No, she didn't love him, and he saw it in her eyes.

“God, that I could have been so deceived in you.”

She told him the truth. “I wanted you to protect me from him.”

“Torie, I'm thirsty.” Damaris was tugging on her riding skirt.

“Why? Has he tired of you already? Does Elaine know and want you out of Drago Hall? Are you pregnant?”

“I haven't done anything. He is the one.”

“Torie, what's the matter? David's yelling.”

“Hush, love. David—”

“Good-bye, Victoria. If only . . . Oh, the devil. Find another witless fellow to cozen.”

He dug his heels into his stallion's sides. Victoria stood swaying slightly and watched him gallop erratically through the maple trees.

“Where's David going?”

“Away, Damie. Yes, away.” She turned slowly, took the child's hand, and walked to the edge of the pond. The water looked appealing, dark green and endlessly calm. It was also only two feet deep, she thought, and began to laugh at herself. She was more of a fool than David.

“Why are you laughing, Torie?”

“Laughing? Is that what I was doing? Well, I suppose there is really nothing else to do.”

It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.

—A
ESOP

V
ictoria fisted her hands, coming fully out of the shadows on the first-floor landing when she heard the lilting strains of a waltz coming from the ballroom below. A small act of defiance. Damien was there, and she was safe, at least until the ball was over. How she wished at that moment that she could have him in her power for but five minutes. Let him plead with her, beg her not to harm him. But it was a fantasy and he would never be in her power; it was not the way the world worked. No, Damien was in the ballroom laughing, dancing, knowing that he had threatened her and lied to David—and not caring.

Damaris, thank the powers, had finally fallen asleep an hour before, and Nanny Black had plaited her wispy gray hair, picked up her Bible, and retired to her own narrow cot. Victoria leaned against the wall, taking the weight from her left leg. Her shoulder touched the edge of a portrait. She turned, startled, to see a long-ago Carstairs in periwig and purple satin holding a dog uglier than Elaine's pug, Missie. She moved away from the portrait, drew a deep breath, and tried to think clearly, but Damien's face, his words, his fierce hands, intruded.

Two hours before, he'd caught her just outside her bedchamber. He was dressed in evening clothes and he was smiling at her. A victor's triumphant smile.

“So, my little Victoria, you're not coming to the ball?”

She knew she shouldn't show him her fear, but it was difficult. “No,” she said. “No, I'm not.”

“I daresay Esterbridge isn't coming either.”

She couldn't help herself. “You're a lying bastard, Damien. How could you be so despicable?”

He was still smiling as he stepped toward her, and she quickly jerked sideways. She wasn't fast enough. He trapped her against the wall, a hand on either side of her face. “No more running, eh? With that leg of yours you're not fast enough. Now, enough of your missishness, my dear. As for Esterbridge, the thought of that knock-kneed sod bedding you—well, consider that I have done you a favor.”

He lowered his head and his hands came down to grasp her shoulders. “No!” His mouth covered hers and her cry was buried in her throat. She felt his tongue stabbing against her closed lips.

He raised his head. His look was determined. “If you lock your door against me again, Victoria, you will regret it.”

“You lied to David. You said horrible things about my mother.”

“Why, yes, I did, didn't I?”

“Dear God, I hate you. You will not touch me again, Damien.”

“I am touching you right now.” His hands came swiftly down to cup her breasts. “Victoria . . . you're soft and full. I—”

She twisted wildly. “Let me go.”

Damien stared at her, feeling her trembling fear of him, and felt a surge of desire so strong it shook even him. He easily pictured her naked beneath him,
struggling, but for naught, of course. No woman had ever reacted to him as Victoria was doing. It was immensely exciting, this chase, and her capture was inevitable. He said easily now, “At least I am a man, my dear, not a sniveling weakling like Esterbridge. Did I tell you I came upon him one day? Ah, yes, he was mauling a village girl. No finesse at all. Now, I am accounted a good lover. I will teach you things, show you how to please me.”

She stared at him, her eyes dark and frightened in the dim light.

He laughed softly. “Why, my dear Victoria, do you fear me seeing your leg? Is that what this is all about? I shan't repine, no matter how ugly it is. Indeed, if I am repelled, then you can return to your narrow virginal bed that much sooner. Of course, you won't be a virgin then, will you?”

“I'll kill you, Damien.”

He laughed, enjoying the wild excitement pounding through him. “Do try, little Victoria. I shall enjoy your efforts.”

There came the sound of male footsteps. Damien slowly took two steps back. “Tonight, Victoria. Tonight I will come to you. Ah, good evening, Ligger. What is it you want?”

“Her ladyship sent me to find you, my lord.”

Damien merely nodded. “Later, my dear,” he said softly, only for her hearing.

She was afraid to look at Ligger. Had he truly come with a message from Elaine? Finally she looked up. Ligger's expression was wooden, his rheumy eyes unblinking, but he didn't move from his position until the baron had turned on his heel and walked away.

Ligger merely nodded, then slowly shook his head. He said very quietly, his voice emotionless, “You'd best not be alone, Miss Victoria.” He followed in the direction of the baron.

Victoria opened her eyes and shook herself. The waltz was over and the orchestra was now playing a country dance. I am not helpless, she thought. I must act. I cannot let this continue. She pushed off against the wall and strode to her bedchamber. There was only one choice, she knew.

She quickly stuffed clothes and underthings into her sturdy valise, the one she'd brought with her five years before. Suddenly she stopped cold. She had no money. She wouldn't survive a day without money. She thought of Damien's study, a large airy room filled with fine Spanish leather furnishings, the one room in Drago Hall that was his own private lair. Even Elaine didn't venture into his study without his permission. He would have a strongbox there, in his big mahogany desk.

But where to stay tonight? Where would she be safe from him? She smiled. She would sleep in the nursery. Beside Damie, with Nanny Black just beyond a thin partition, her ubiquitous Bible beside her bed. And she'd be gone before dawn tomorrow.

But where?

Victoria straightened over her valise. That, she decided, she would consider before she fell asleep.

She carried her valise and cloak to the nursery. No one saw her. If Damien came to her bedchamber tonight, and she knew that he would, he would find her gone. What would he do? He would not, she guessed, try to drag her out of the nursery, even if he discovered her there. Even Baron Drago could not go that far.

She wrapped herself in her cloak and pressed against the edge of Damie's small bed. The child's even breathing calmed her.

She slept in spurts and roused herself at four o'clock in the morning. Upon jerking awake, her first thought was of Damien. What had he done when
he'd found her gone? She shivered. It was cold, the air damp. She kissed Damie's soft cheek, tucked her securely in a cocoon of blankets, and left the nursery. She crept down the stairs, feeling her way, for it was dark as a pit. She lit her candle only when she had firmly closed Damien's study door.

In the bottom drawer of his desk, she found the strongbox. She had no qualms about forcing the lock with a hairpin. It came open, and she calmly counted out twenty pounds. There, she thought. It wasn't really stealing; after all, she'd been Damaris' nursemaid since the child had been born. She would return the money after she'd found a position.

She was quietly and intently replacing the strongbox when she chanced to see a pile of letters tied in a black ribbon. The top one wasn't folded properly, and she saw her name—Miss Victoria Abermarle—in a sentence written in black ink in a small cramped hand. Frowning, she pulled it out and smoothed it on the desktop. She sat in Damien's chair and brought the candle closer. It was a letter to Damien from a solicitor, Mr. Abner Westover. She read it slowly, then read it again with a growing sense of unreality.

She finished it a third time, and tucked it neatly back into the pile with the others. My God, she thought, this was incredible. At least now she knew exactly where she was going. London. To Mr. Abner Westover.

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.