Dangerous Magic Read Free

hereabouts carry your goods away, and the other half turn a blind eye to your doings. You’re safe enough,” Gwenyth replied, irritated at returning to such a dreary room.
    She’d done it often enough before, but for some reason her earlier dreams of someone awaiting her return made it different—worse.
    Rafe Fleming stood dressed in nothing but breeches and a wide linen bandage. His hair hung free of its queue to fall across his shoulders, bright golden strands among the dark glittering in the tapers’ light. The hard muscles of his chest and shoulders lay bare, and Gwenyth remembered the warmth of his skin beneath her hands, the sleek, elegant lines of a dangerous man. Her face grew hot, and her heart knotted in her chest with an odd, unexpected ache.
    Jago chuckled. “They may ignore his smuggling, Gwenyth, but I know of a few men who’d be taking it wrong that you’ve a man living with you. Their plans don’t include Captain Fleming.”
    Amusement gleamed in the captain’s eyes. “Will they meet me with daggers drawn and force us before the village priest?”
    Angry at her body’s reaction to his presence, Gwenyth gave him a mocking glance. “Do you think I expect you to ask for my hand in marriage, Captain, simply because I bound your hurts and let you sleep upon my floor? Jago speaks nonsense.”
    Jago stepped in between them. “Perhaps, but it’s no nonsense that a Riding Officer’s been nosing about. Don’t know what he suspects, but it’s best if Fleming lays quiet here for a few more days, at least until the man heads north toward Fire Beacon Point.”
    Rafe Fleming stilled at the mention of the Riding Officer, the lines of his jaw hardening. “I should go. The revenuers may think you’re in league with me.”
    Gwenyth knelt by the hearth with the tinderbox. “And aren’t we?”
    He ignored her. “If I’m caught here, it could go bad for you.”
    Gwenyth struck a spark with her flint. “You’ll stay. Your wound is still fresh. I’ll not have it sour because of poor tending.”
    He sank onto a chair. His hands upon the table balled into fists of impatience, but Gwenyth noted the pallor of his face, and the sweat beading his brow despite the chill of the room. He recovered, but not rapidly enough to fight off a revenuer.
    “How about your cottage, Killigrew?” he asked. “I can pay for my room and board.” He gave a dry laugh. “My villainy’s made sure of that.”
    Jago shook his head. “I’d like to help you. But I’ve my wife and children, as well as my wife’s mother and sister.” He pulled at his chin. “There’s no room for more. You’d be better off here with Gwenyth to look after you.”
    “Despite the outraged sensibilities of a rabble of fishermen? I’d hate to be attacked in my sick bed,” he slanted an appreciative glance at Gwenyth, “especially as their suspicions are unfounded—as of yet.”
    Gwenyth ground her teeth at this jumped-up sea rover’s confidence. She opened her mouth to snap a response, but Jago forestalled her.
    “They may wish mischief, but naught will happen to you here. It’s as Gwenyth said,” Jago answered. “No one in Kerrow thinks twice about a Killigrew’s strange doings. We’ve a reputation, you could say.” He laughed. “As far back as grandfathers remember their grandfathers telling it, Killigrews march to their own step, and the women march with the oddest gait of all.”
    “What the bloody hell does that mean?” the captain asked.
    Gwenyth rose and crossed to the table. He glanced up at her, his eyes in the light flashing like a rough sea. She reached over and covered his hand. “It means you stay here, and you stay safe.”
     
     
    “…she is gone to another. She has left you behind. Ride the waves, boy-o. Ride the waves on…”
    Rafe moved his head upon the pillow, seeking the source of the singing, but fog pressed him upon all sides. He drew a breath, pain slashing its way across his ribs, burning up through his