A Passionate Magic Read online

  Perhaps he ought to take his wife to bed at once, and fill her belly with his seed before his mother came home. Surely even Lady Richenda’s pride would bend enough to accept the woman who bore in her womb the next heir to Penman.

  No! He could not bed Emma. He did not want this cursed marriage that had been inflicted on him, and he was determined to leave open the possibility of having it annulled for lack of consummation.

  With a smothered oath he turned away from Emma and started back toward Penruan.

  ”Dain, wait a moment,” she called after him.

  “Why?” He halted, not looking at her.

  “Did you see anyone on the cliff before I appeared?” she asked.

  “No,” he responded sharply. Then, thinking it an odd question for her to ask and wondering if she had seen something that could pose a danger to Penruan, he added, “I arrived home just a short time ago. Sloan did not mention the sentries noticing anything out of the ordinary. It was he who told me you were on the beach.”

  And like a love-smitten page running after the girl who had enchanted his heart, Dain had left his men-at-arms and squires, ignoring Sloan’s attempts to make a full report of all that had occurred while he was gone, and had run to the top of the cliff path to meet Emma. It was not like him to make such a foolish gesture.

  ”You rode directly here from Trevanan?” Emma asked.

  “I did.” He could not continue to speak to her when his back was turned, so he faced her again. He was glad to see she had moved away from the edge of the cliff. The late-afternoon sun shone full on her face, making her skin glow as if it was translucent. The wind lifted the sides of her simple white linen head scarf, allowing him to see the thick black braid of her hair.

  His fingers itched to tear off the scarf, to pull out the hairpins and untwist the braid, letting the smooth length of her hair flow through his hands. He remembered with painful clarity how Emma’s hair felt, how clean it smelled. He longed to take her face between his hands, to feel again the softness of her cheek against his callused fingers. He ached to press his mouth over her rose-petal lips. At the mere thought of touching Emma, of holding her in his arms, his body surged into eager readiness.

  Sweet saints in heaven! What was wrong with him? After his first, youthful foray into lust, and his recognition of how easily untrammeled masculine passion could create a new life, he had never again found it difficult to restrain his bodily desires. He ought not to find it difficult now. She was, after all, his enemy’s daughter. He was not – definitely not! – going to bed her.

  “What is it you want to know, Emma?” he asked, rather more sharply than he intended.

  “If you rode straight from Trevanan, you must have had a full view of the cliffs all along your way,” she said.

  “So I did. And all along the way I saw no one. That is what you asked, is it not?” He frowned at her because, after first looking nervously in the direction of Trevanan, she was now staring straight into his eyes, and it was all he could do to keep his hands at his sides.

  “While I was on the beach, I thought I saw a figure dressed in white standing at the edge of the cliff,” she said.

  “Ah,” said Dain, understanding. “You’ve seen the lady.”

  “Blake told me that you have seen her, too.”

  “Blake talks much too freely.”

  “Does she live in the cave just below?”

  “So you’ve been exploring Merlin’s cave, have you?” Of course she had; she was too intelligent not to be curious about her surroundings. Well, let her prowl along the beaches and poke into caves and bring home all the half-dead plants she wanted. He and Sloan and even young Blake could easily keep her under surveillance, to see that she came to no harm. And if she was caught out in a misdemeanor during her wanderings, he would have a perfect excuse to send her back to Wroxley, untouched, unbedded, still a virgin....

  “Are you speaking of the great wizard?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  “The legend says Merlin lies enchanted in one of the caves below these cliffs,” Dain told her, aware that the ending of Merlin’s story presented a lesson that he, wed to a lady he dared not trust, ought to take to heart. He started walking toward Penruan and Emma went with him. From the expression on her beautiful face, she was entranced by the mention of King Arthur’s friend and teacher.

  “Even the greatest wizard of all was not immune to the blandishments of a lovely female,” Dain continued. “His treacherous mistress, Nimue, lured him to a cave and, according to the tale, there she wove an enchantment that supposedly holds great Merlin entombed to this day. In fact, the local folk believe the ruins of Camelot are buried somewhere on the moor. It has even been claimed that a new castle being built farther east along the coast is laid out on the very site of Arthur’s birthplace. I do not believe that last story.”

  “Do you believe the other tales?” Emma asked.

  “I do not know whether the stories are true or not. Nor, I fear, does anyone else know for certain, and I doubt if anyone will ever prove where Arthur built his castle.”

  “What of the lady in white? You admit you’ve seen her.”

  “She appears and disappears,” he said. “Sometimes she is not seen for months, or even years. She must be a creature of magic, to come and go so mysteriously. It’s my opinion that it is always best to avoid magic. Too much of it is evil.” He rubbed his forehead, aware of the faint, unpleasant ache that always accompanied sight or mention of the ghostly lady. After a moment the ache disappeared.

  Emma looked as if she wanted to say something, but she shook her head and remained silent. For the rest of the walk back to the castle she was so quiet that Dain wondered if she feared the possibility of magic, or if it was just the vision of the lady in white that had frightened her.

  They reached the deep moat that was cut through the solid rock of the headland. Originally, the moat had been a natural ravine created by the river. The chasm had been made wider and deeper by successive lords of Penruan until the castle was almost completely inaccessible to invasion. The moat was so deep that the drawbridge had a railing to prevent falls.

  Dain watched as Emma paused to look over the railing at the jagged black rocks along the sides of the ravine. When she resumed walking her step was firm and steady. Plainly, she was not afraid of heights. She was going to make a brave, resourceful, and beautiful lady for his castle.

  Dain was so startled by the direction of his thoughts that he halted in the middle of the drawbridge to stare at his wife’s slender back. His gaze moved lower and he took considerable pleasure in the sight of her shapely calves beneath the skirt that was still kilted high. In that moment Dain was glad she could not read his mind, and gladder still to know his tunic reached to mid-thigh.

  The bottom of Emma’s skirt was so wet that she dripped as she walked, and her boots left a trail of damp footprints in her wake. Wet or dry, she moved with graceful dignity, and it was delightful to watch her. She did not seem to notice that Dain was no longer at her side. Perhaps she had her own secret thoughts. That was a distinctly unpleasant idea, for Emma’s secret thoughts might well be treacherous. With a frown clouding his brow, Dain followed his wife into the shadows of the gatehouse.

  Chapter 5

  Later that evening Dain sat at the high table with Emma by his side. She wore fresh clothes: deep russet-brown wool for her gown, a simple gold mesh net over the thick, pinned-up braid of her hair, and a gold necklace set with amethysts, stones as darkly purple as the flecks of color in her brown eyes.

  It was all Dain could do to keep his hands from her. Having decided that he definitely would not bed her, and having sternly lectured himself over his desire for her during the hour when he was supposedly listening with full attention to Sloan’s report covering the days of his absence from Penruan, Dain had succeeded in convincing himself that he was immune to Emma’s beauty, as well as to the more subtle allures offered by her low-pitched, musical voice and her intelligence.
r />   After Sloan finished his report, Dain visited the castle bathhouse to wash and to be shaved by the barber. Then he changed into a sober dark brown tunic that he felt emphasized his new determination to keep a cool but polite distance from Emma.

  He had entered the great hall looking forward to the evening meal which, in celebration of his return, was to be embellished beyond the usual cold meats and cheese, bread, and ale that were its everyday ingredients. Cook had made a pigeon pie, and there was to be a salad composed in part of herbs gathered by Emma during her most recent excursion to the moor. The sweet was to be a custard served with the first plums of the season stewed with cinnamon and cloves.

  Dain noted with pleasure the clean white cloth on the high table, the wooden trenchers, one for every two people, and his own silver drinking cup waiting for him at his place. He saw that the candles were already lit in the twin candelabra on the high table. All was as it should be, all prepared for the lord of Penruan.

  And then Emma came down the curving stone staircase from the tower and into the circle of candlelight, a radiant vision of ripe autumn shades, of russet and gold and purple, and Dain experienced again that peculiar twisting in his chest, as if a dainty hand was locking itself firmly around his heart.

  In his struggle against unwilling admiration of her lovely person, and against the tightness that would not release itself from his chest, he resorted to a coldness toward her that was almost rude.

  “Where did you acquire such a necklace?” he demanded, frowning at the gold and amethyst splendor that caressed her throat. The neckline of her gown was demurely high and round, with no embroidery, the better to show off the fine workmanship of the necklace – and the smooth ivory column of her throat. Dain shook with the sudden desire to place his lips upon a tiny mole just below her left ear, a slight imperfection that only enhanced her beauty.

  “It is a wedding gift from my father,” she said. Her fingertips lightly stroked the largest purple stone, the one that hung just above the beginning of the soft swell of her breasts.

  ”A king’s ransom of a gift,” Dain responded. He did not say what both of them knew, that according to the law the necklace rightly belonged to him, just as Emma did, just as all of her belongings were now his, because she was his wife. His wife ... to take to his bed, to possess in the most intimate of ways...

  “It was a gift of love,” she said. “My father loves me well.”

  Dain was shamed by the tender smile playing along her lips and by the warm look in her eyes when she spoke of Gavin. She did love her father; he could not question the honesty of her emotion. Nor did he doubt her claim that Gavin loved her. Yet she had left her loving family to come voluntarily to Penruan, to be wife to a man who was sworn never to love her, never to believe in her honesty, or in her father’s.

  Suddenly Dain’s angry feud against the baron of Wroxley and his plan to reject Emma as part of his revenge against Gavin seemed but tawdry schemes. They felt like the workings of an unquiet mind that counted wounds received in open warfare and the loss of a small tract of land more important than the heart of a virtuous young woman. Never mind that the initial impulse to reopen the feud was not his own. He had been all too willing to heed the arguments that claimed revenge was his duty. He had accepted the responsibility and he could not lay it aside. The feud was his now.

  And so Dain sat beside his wife at the high table, barely nibbling at the pigeon pie that he usually relished, scarcely tasting the spiced plum sauce over rich custard that was one of his favorite treats. He drank a little too much and warned himself to keep away from Emma.

  “Will you return to Trevanan soon?” she asked him.

  “Yes.” Dain made a hasty decision. “I intend to return tomorrow morning. The men who are rebuilding the houses ruined by the brigands will work faster and better if I am there to oversee their efforts.” They would work just as well for the overseer Dain had left at Trevanan, but if he did not return there, if he remained at Penruan, he would have to see Emma several times a day, speak with her, sit beside her at the high table during the midday and evening meals. Every night he’d have to fight anew the battle with himself to stay out of the big bed in the lord’s chamber.

  “May I ride to Trevanan with you?” Emma asked.

  “There is no place for you to stay,” he objected.

  “I don’t want to stay in Trevanan,” Emma said. “I am sure the villagers are much too busy making the necessary repairs before the winter gales to have time to entertain me. Not to mention their urgent need to bring in and store the harvest, and to cure and salt down the fish they catch. The damage the outlaws did has only added to their late-summer labors. I don’t want to disrupt their work. I only want to visit Agatha.”

  He gave her a cold stare while he tried to make up his mind which part of her speech to object to first. How did she know about the strenuous efforts the villagers were making to harvest the fruits of both land and sea before the storms of autumn and winter arrived? He was aware that the weather was different in Lincolnshire than in Cornwall. Emma had grown up with harsh winters, yet she seemed to understand that at Penruan the winter days were ruled by rain and strong wind, rather than by ice and snow. Had she been questioning Sloan? Or cajoling that impressionable boy, Blake, into indiscreet talk? All of his people had been warned not to reveal to Emma any information that she could send to Gavin, that he might use against Penruan or its lord. Did she really care about the people of Penruan and Trevanan, or was her interest a ruse? And what business did she have with Agatha?

  It was exceedingly difficult not to be able to trust one’s own wife. It was even more difficult not to embrace her when she was so enchanting. Emma smiled at him and touched his arm, and Dain went rigid with the effort it took not to put his hands on her shoulders and draw her close for a kiss on her delectable lips.

  “Dain, are you woolgathering?” Her breathy little laugh sent a shiver down his spine, followed immediately by a surge of heat. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

  “I have heard you. I don’t think you ought to intrude on Trevanan at this time.”

  “As I just told you, I have no intention of intruding. All I want is your company as far as the village. Once there, I will visit Agatha for an hour or two, and then I will leave. If you let me take Blake along, he will be escort enough for my return to Penruan.”

  “Why do you want to meet Agatha?”

  “Because, according to Blake, and to several of your men-at-arms, whom I have asked about the manner in which wounds are treated here, Agatha is the person you send for whenever a serious illness or an injury occurs that you or Sloan or the men by themselves cannot manage. Everyone I asked spoke of Agatha’s skills, and also mentioned that she is very old and not likely to live for many more years. It was my idea that she could teach me what cures she uses, and provide information about local plants with curative powers, plants that I might pass by on my searches, because I am not familiar with them. I want to learn as much as I can from Agatha.”

  “I thought you came to me well taught,’ he said, sounding irritated. Which, in fact, he was, but not because she wanted to use old Agatha as a teacher. It irked Dain that he could find no fault in her. Emma was attempting to do exactly what the new lady of the castle ought to do. She was trying to use her skills as a healer for the benefit of the men and women of Penruan. It was his duty to give her every assistance.

  “There is no person so well taught that she cannot learn more,” Emma said. “If Agatha is as wise as I have been told, then there is much she can teach me.”

  She met his stern gaze with a look that Dain perceived as complete openness, and in that moment, charmed by her beauty and her sweet voice, he decided to disregard the other, more familiar voice in his mind that shrilly warned him not to trust her.

  “You may go with me,” he said, “and I will order one of my men-at-arms to accompany you back to Penruan after you have finished your business with Agatha. The lady of Pen
man ought not to ride about the countryside without an armed escort.”

  “Thank you, Dain.” She lowered her eyes, blushing, and her voice was soft when next she spoke. “Do you wish to join me in the lord’s chamber tonight?”

  “Is that to be my reward for agreeing to what you want?” he asked, speaking harshly to hide the warmth that flooded his body at the thought of lying down with her in his own bed and taking her into his arms. He was sure she noticed how hot his face was, and if she looked more closely at him, she would see the obvious evidence of his desire for her, evidence he was unable to conceal without making a fool of himself by tugging down his tunic or pulling the tablecloth across his lap.

  “I only thought you might feel it was time,” she said, still blushing. “You have kindly allowed me several weeks in which to recover from my long and difficult journey to Penruan, and I did understand that you preferred not to engage in marital relations immediately after the death of your son, and then there was the reconstruction of those houses at Trevanan to see to, but now you are home again.”

  “So I am,” he said. And about to run away to Trevanan again in the morning, just to avoid her. That he, who had never fled from a battlefield or from any other fight, should depart from his own castle in unseemly haste in order not to sleep in the same bed with his wife seemed to him ludicrous. It was unmanly of him. Emma was his chattel, to possess or reject as he chose. He wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman.

  If he took her, he might get her with child, might blend his blood with the blood of Baron Udo and of Gavin, the two men he had been taught for all his life to hate. To do so would be to betray his father and grandfather. The old voice to which he had listened for so many years echoed in his mind, telling him that it was far more manly of him to deny his yearning for Emma than to give in to it.

  Yet there was another reason why he could not lie with her, a reason having nothing to do with his family’s long-established hatreds. There was in Emma a gentle richness, a quality of her soul that called out to him with an almost irresistible strength. If he led her to the lord’s chamber and stripped off her clothing and his, if he took her into his bed, he would also take her into his heart. He would not merely possess his wife, he would make love to her. And loving was weakness. So he had been taught.