Caress of a Witch, page 8
part #1 of Darkness Rising - Three Series
Was she losing her mind? It was impossible that these half-recalled images from long-ago dreams should be here before her in reality now. But the connection still hummed in her veins, a new and precious knowledge that ran deeper inside her than thought. Was this the promised key to her future?
Turning from her contemplation of Tom Wynter’s grave, she scanned the graveyard behind her once more. The women in the gaudy dresses had gone. But there was danger in her shadow now, she was sure of it, and she needed to be wary. She began to shiver, the morning chill creeping inside her cloak, and her feet were numb with the cold as she stumbled to get up. But still, she wished she could have stayed longer at his graveside, even though she could find no words to explain all she felt, all she wanted to say.
‘I will come again,’ she whispered at last.
Then, turning, she wandered slowly from the graveyard and into the street beyond its gate.
8
One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never
Mary was early to the wharf. The day was bitter cold, and a freezing mist curled around the masts so that the ships loomed ghostlike from the fog, and the calls of the men as they worked sounded far off and disembodied. She shivered, moving gently from foot to foot, toes growing numb. Restless, she let her eyes wander along the quay. Torches made little headway through the mist, and here and there she glimpsed the bright spark of a brazier. But the dock was alive with activity – men, boxes, ropes, sails, livestock, all shifting in a complex dance as the ships were made ready for the turning tide. The Falcon strained gently at her moorings, her masts lost in the clouds that shrouded her. Men went ceaselessly to and fro, engaged in crucial but unknown tasks, and a sliver of excitement kindled inside her. She was going home, and though she had learned across the years to live with the ache of missing it she was glad, in spite of her fears for her daughter. She only hoped it was the right decision, and that her dream and her call to Hecate weren’t leading her astray. Shaking her head against the doubts, she peered again along the quay into the shifting mist, searching for the figure of Rafe Tyndall amongst the shadowy forms that peopled the dock.
Each minute seemed to take an age before she heard the church bells on the breeze, tolling the hour. He was late. Then, finally, just as she was beginning to despair, a tall figure emerged and her heart gave a little skip in the moment before she remembered that it was not Toby she awaited but another man, whose intentions she did not trust. But when Rafe stood before her at last she was glad enough to see him – she had no other plan to fall back on if he had failed to come.
‘Mistress Johnson.’ He bowed in greeting, and she dropped into a curtsey in reply.
‘Master Tyndall.’
‘Shall we board?’
She nodded and he bent to sweep her bag from the cobbles at her feet, swinging it easily over a shoulder. Then he offered her his other arm and she took it, the cobbles slippery, the gangplank unsteady. But she felt ill at ease, as if she were being unfaithful – for all the men she had bedded in her life she had only ever walked arm-in-arm with Toby.
Two sailors nodded a greeting and stepped aside to let them pass. Mary’s boots slipped on the steep incline of the gangway and she found she was glad of Rafe’s arm after all. From the deck she followed him down the steps to the tiny cabin he told her they would share.
Observing the single narrow cot she understood – it was as she’d expected it would be, and inwardly she sighed – she had thought those days were over. A lurch of guilt lifted inside her. Her husband only six months in the ground and here she was again, using her body for trade. But, she reasoned to herself, it was only one man and really, what other choice did she have?
She waited as he stowed her bag beneath the bed, tucking it safely away so it wouldn’t shift with the toss and roll of the ship. She was aware that this was no simple transaction, and she was unsure of the rules he expected to play by. In her old life, she had been a good judge of men, but this one she could not quite read.
It was warm in the cabin and a lantern swung gently from a hook, throwing shadows that shifted across the floor. She remembered the last time, the only other time, she had boarded a ship. She had been fleeing England with Toby, and Kate had still been an unknown possibility inside her. So long ago, her daughter a grown woman now – the thought of it made her feel old.
Dropping her gloves onto the table she gave Rafe a smile. He was observing her and there was a light in his look she knew well, a hunger alight in his eyes. She met the look with a tilt of her chin but, even so, she was flattered that he wanted her – perhaps she was not so old after all. He smiled and inclined his head in silent question, and she thought again that he was really quite beautiful – something otherworldly about him, a charisma that was hard to resist.
He held out his hand towards her as if inviting her to dance and when she took it, his fingers were strong and cold against hers. They stood for a moment, an arm’s length apart. Then he said, ‘It is a small cabin but the bed is yours alone, if that’s what you wish. I can sleep in the chair.’
She was surprised into silence by her misjudgement of him. He was more of a gentleman than she had given him credit for, and she gave herself a wry smile. She had learned to judge men at the bawdy house – perhaps not all men could be read so easily.
‘However …’ His fingers tightened on hers and drew her nearer to him, letting the sentence hang.
She said nothing, struggling with her feelings. The ship gave a sudden shudder against the quay, and Mary almost stumbled, held steady only by the strength of Rafe’s fingers. She wanted him, she realised. Beyond the need to pay her way, desire for him flared through her. Since Toby’s death she had thought she would never feel such things again, and a sense of herself as an unfaithful wife rippled through her.
‘I am a widow,’ she said.
A flicker passed across his eyes that was hard to read in the candlelight, but it was gone in a moment – he hid his feelings well.
‘I understand. But perhaps it’s time to love again.’ He drew her in close to him, so that her breasts brushed against his shirt, and she was aware of his warmth, the strength of the muscles beneath the clothes. For three long breaths, she hesitated, until he tipped her chin upwards with a curled finger and placed his mouth on hers.
With the kiss, all her reservations slid away, her body giving in to the pleasure of his touch. His mouth was warm and gentle, and the taste of him was sweet. She raised her hands to unfasten the cloak at her neck, and his hands met hers to help so that they fumbled together for a moment, tangling, making them laugh.
Dropping her hands away from the clasp, she let him peel the cloak away, shivering as the cool air touched her skin. He lowered his lips to brush the side of her neck and she tilted her head away, trying not to recall the caress of Toby’s mouth against her body, Toby’s hands on her shoulders, trying not to compare, still unwilling to admit she desired this man who was not Toby. But the feeling persisted, insistent despite her protests. Toby was dead, she reminded herself, his cold body dragged from the sea more than six months since. She was a widow now and she must manage somehow. How else was she to find her daughter and make a new life for herself?
Rafe began to untie the laces of her bodice, fingers deft and practised, searching inside to find her breasts. Letting go of the memory of her husband’s touch, she surrendered to the pleasure of the other man’s embrace, liking the warmth of his body as it pressed against her, the brush of his fingertips across her nipple. Her breath caught and quickened: she had forgotten the excitement of a new man, the anticipation of unknown pleasures yet to come. But in spite of the pleasure, it still felt like a betrayal.
A sudden knock at the door startled them from their caresses and they stepped quickly apart, still breathing hard. Mary’s heart hammered in her chest as she turned her body away from the door and began hurriedly to retie her bodice. Rafe swept a palm across his hair, took a deep breath, and in two strides he was at the door, drawing it open just wide enough to put his face to the crack.
‘Yes?’
‘The captain wants a word, sir.’ A boy’s voice, soft and barely audible. ‘As soon as you can.’
‘Tell him I’ll be right there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rafe closed the door and turned back into the cabin with a smile. They locked eyes, and though she could still see the handsomeness in the fine, dark features and the strong muscles of his body, the desire she had felt for him just a moment before had already ebbed away. Silently, she said a prayer of thanks to the cabin boy for interrupting them. In spite of the temptation and the brief bright flare of desire, she knew she was not yet ready to love again, whatever Rafe had said.
She returned his smile.
‘Duty calls.’ He tilted his head towards the door, and Mary watched him run his hand across his hair once more before he turned the handle and disappeared out into the passage. For a moment, she stood and regarded the door, unsure what to think. Would he expect to resume their caresses on his return? Perhaps. But she knew now that he was not a man to force her against her will, and she allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She would remain faithful to Toby after all – a respectable widow, her honour intact.
With nothing else to do, she lifted herself up onto the narrow bed, lay back into the surprising softness of the pillows, and let the gentle rock of the ship lull her into a restless doze.
She woke abruptly when the latch of the door clicked open and shut again and she heard Rafe’s boots on the boards. Disorientated, she sat up abruptly and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. How long had she slept?
Rafe crossed the small cabin and slid into the chair at the table, then turned to face her.
‘Was everything all right?’ she asked, to cover her confusion. ‘With the captain?’
‘Aye. A matter of business, merely.’ He made a small gesture to the cot with his head. ‘Did you sleep?’
‘A little,’ she replied. ‘It’s like being rocked in a cradle.’
He gave a small laugh. ‘I always sleep well aboard ship,’ he said. ‘I think I missed my calling as a sailor.’
She smiled and the silence between them stretched, but it was not uncomfortable. He seemed in no hurry to resume where they had left off when the cabin boy knocked, and she felt no trace of the tension that had sparked between them before. Perhaps he had sensed her change of heart; she hoped so.
‘So,’ he said, after a while. ‘What business takes you to England in such a hurry?’
‘A personal matter,’ she replied with a nonchalant shrug. Her feet swung loosely above the floor like a child’s. However much she liked this man, instinct kept her silent: it was in her nature not to trust.
‘Am I not to know?’ He made a show of being offended, a half-smile at the corners of his mouth.
Mary shook her head.
‘Even after aiding you as I have, in your moment of need?’
‘Even then,’ she replied, with a laugh.
He held her eyes for a moment more then swung away from her towards the table. Within moments he seemed already absorbed in a book and some papers he had taken from his bag, her presence apparently forgotten. Mary shuffled back on the bed and, with nothing else to do, she observed him again with a dispassionate eye. There was something a little untamed about him, she decided, the vital spirit of his youth still undimmed. He should have been at play in the brothels and gambling dens of Bankside, she thought, instead of running secret errands for an exiled prince. But then, perhaps such work fed a sense of adventure, a desire to be at the heart of great affairs. Some men thrived on danger, she knew, though she would never understand it. She had lived through enough dangers in her life to be grateful for the peace that safety offered.
She shuffled back onto the bed and lay down again, gazing up at the wooden slats of the ceiling above her head. She had no intention of sleeping again, but when the ship began to draw away from the quay, her thoughts were lulled by the movement and as she drifted away, her last waking thoughts were of Kate, and the search that lay ahead.
Rafe settled himself at the table and took out his books and papers. He was aware of the woman lying sleepy in his bed and the memory of her warmth and the taste of her lit a pleasant heat in his guts. He had been surprised by her willingness – as a respectable widow, he had thought she would guard her honour with more care. Ah, who was he to judge? Both of them alone on a journey – what harm if they sought pleasure together? But he had sensed the change in her on his return from the captain’s cabin, as though she was having second thoughts. The coyness had faded from her smile, and there was no more invitation in her eyes. Perhaps the memory of her husband had caught at her conscience after all, and they would share no more caresses. It was a shame, but he couldn’t blame her for that.
He leafed through the book on the table before him but his attention failed to stick: he was too conscious of Mary’s presence, her soft warmth, the creamy skin. He turned to observe her. Her face was peaceful in repose, the lines of wariness that creased around her eyes in her waking hours smoothing out in sleep. Her hands rested lightly on the pillow before her face, and it was only when he had been watching her a while that he noticed she had six full fingers on one hand. He started, surprised he hadn’t realised before – it was rare such things escaped his notice. A common man might believe she belonged to the Devil, and a brief image flickered through his mind of Mary sporting naked with her master. He gave himself a wry smile. If there was a hell, he would surely meet her there.
Perhaps she sensed his gaze on her face because after a moment her eyelids flickered open, and the wariness returned abruptly to her face. Rubbing a hand across her eyes, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to face him again.
‘How long was I asleep?’
‘A few minutes only.’
She said nothing but looked about the cabin, and he noticed that she cradled her left hand in her right, as though to hide it. Despite her age, she was still a handsome woman. He guessed she was in her forties, but her body was still lean and strong, and her hair tumbled fair and thick about her shoulders, loosened from its fastening and mussed by sleep. As if reading his thoughts, she reached up to gather it in her hands, plaiting it deftly with practised ease. When she was finished, the braid hung neatly over one shoulder to lie against her breast.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked.
‘This?’ He flicked a casual hand towards his papers. ‘Just an old book I came across in The Hague.’
She tilted her head with interest and reached out to take it so that she could examine it more closely. Out of no more than courtesy, he supposed, the habit of polite conversation, and after a moment’s hesitation, he passed her the book. He watched as she ran her eyes across the pages, flicking lightly through them, pausing here and there to let her attention linger on some passage or picture that interested her.
Then she handed it back to him, and her face was as still as a mask.
‘You’re an … astrologer?’ she asked. Her tone was light, but he heard a note of trepidation in the words, and he was surprised she had understood so much. The text was in Latin and Greek, and the symbols were arcane and hard to read, even for him. He had been studying it a while.
‘You can read it?’
‘I recognise some of the pictures.’ She lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
‘How so?’ His heartbeat quickened with interest.
‘My husband knew something of the art,’ she offered. ‘He had a book with pictures such as those.’ She gave a careless gesture of her head towards it as though it was of no significance to her, and Rafe realised he must tread carefully – she was already on her guard.
‘Do you happen to remember its title?’ he asked, keeping the tone conversational, mildly curious, despite the rapid patter of his heartbeat in his chest. For although the book did indeed contain some mention of astrology, the pictures she had recognised were of sigils and symbols of alchemy. The volume in his hands was a grimoire, a collection of magical texts he had bought in secret from a man who had smuggled it overland from the East, and it had cost him almost everything he owned to obtain. Its possession would brand him a heretic if the wrong people came to know of it, and its mere existence could cost him his life. It was a rare text, and few men ever owned them. Who had her husband been, to possess such a thing?
‘I don’t recall the title.’ She shrugged again. ‘It was just some old book. About the stars.’ She gave him a rueful smile as if to say such things were beyond her understanding. But he knew it was a lie, and he studied her for a long moment, wondering how best to answer. She had surprised him more than once, and he was on the back foot now, struggling to appraise her anew.
‘He told you nothing more of it?’
‘No. He was interested in the art of astrology for a while, and so he studied sometimes in the evenings after his days at work.’ She met his gaze with open innocence and he had to quell his surprise. It was not an object of casual study, after all, but a discipline of lifelong learning. Scholars and sorcerers both, dedicating whole lives to the art.
‘What happened to it?’ he asked. ‘Do you recall?’
‘I cannot rightly say,’ she replied. ‘’Tis many years since I saw it last. Perhaps he sold it.’
‘I hope he got a good price for it. Such books are very rare and often of great value,’ he said. ‘Do you know how he came by it?’
‘I believe it was his father’s,’ she said.
He said nothing, and he was certain she knew far more than she was telling. He observed her for a moment and cast his mind back across the stories he had heard in all the years of his studies, sifting the fact from the fiction, the truth from the fairy tales. Could it be the fabled book of magic that men whispered of in taverns? Cursed and powerful, its whereabouts unknown these last twenty years or more? A book men would kill for. A book men had died to possess. It was possible. The rumours spoke of it last on Bankside; but Rafe had once heard that many years ago it had made its way to The Hague. He regarded Mary, who was watching him now with a small smile on her lips, her head tilted. He returned the smile, but he was sure that behind that innocent face there lay all manner of secrets, and he would need to be clever to discover them.
