Moonspun Magic (29 page)

“They were Norman,” said Victoria.

“Yes. A very old name. The family must have been marvelously healthy to enjoy such longevity. I understand the direct line didn't die out until the mid-fifteen-hundreds. Their name now is Demoreton, still close to the original, just a bit more English-sounding.”

“Why is the property for sale?” Damien asked idly.

“The usual reason. Money. Rather, the lack of it. The family was cursed with a series of wastrels. The last Demoreton, Albert by name, managed to gamble
away his entire patrimony by the age of twenty-five, then killed himself, leaving his family to suffer the consequences. If Victoria and I are pleased with it, I think we'll make an excellent bargain. Do you care to be the mistress of the manor at Wolfeton, Victoria?”

“Wolfeton. It's a very romantic name,” Victoria said. She found herself staring at Rafael as he calmly finished off his hazelnut pudding. He'd said nothing to her about a specific property. And he appeared to know everything about it.

“St. Agnes,” she said aloud. “Don't you remember, Elaine? Damien had business in St. Agnes and you and I went with him. It was four years ago. It's on the northern coast of Cornwall. The country is so beautifully savage and untamed. And remember how very fierce the sea winds could be? And the trees—so bowed and bent and twisted all along the coastline.”

Rafael was smiling at her enthusiasm. “I believe,” he said, once she had run down, “that I have come across an area that appeals to you.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I remember St. Agnes and St. Agnes Head,” Elaine said, her voice tart. “You were only fifteen years old, Victoria, and you seem to have forgotten that awful storm. I thought we should be swept over that cliff.”

“Victoria was more a mountain goat in those years than a young girl,” Damien said.

“How long will you be gone?”

Rafael answered Elaine easily, “I believe we'll travel there in slow stages. After all, I haven't seen Cornwall in quite a while. We'll spend tomorrow night in Truro, spend the following night in St. Agnes, then return the next evening. That should be a sufficient amount of time.”

Victoria looked at him, wondering why he didn't
wish to spend more time there. It certainly didn't seem all that sufficient to her. After all, his entire purpose for bringing her back here to Drago Hall was ostensibly to use it as a base. Now it seemed that he couldn't bear to be gone for any length of time from Drago Hall. But then, it really didn't seem all that odd to her. He was here to ferret out this Hellfire Club business, she was certain of it. She felt a frisson of alarm, and clamped her mouth tightly closed.

“I'm glad you're returning in good time,” said Elaine, looking at Victoria. “Your ball will require a great deal of work.”

“We'll be your slaves.” Rafael turned to his brother. “Is Gwithian Inn still doing business in Truro?”

“Indeed it is. Old man Fooge still serves the finest smuggled French brandy and his wife still makes the most delicious stargazy pie.” Damien grinned maliciously. “Ah, I forget, you detest stargazy pie.”

“So do I,” said Victoria with great conviction. “All those poor pilchards with their heads sticking up.”

Rafael said to his wife, “Actually, my dislike comes from a specific incident in my misspent youth. When I was ten or so, my dear twin offered to share some of his pie with me. Unfortunately, just as I speared a bite, the pilchard wiggled off my fork. I tried to murder Damien, was foiled by our tutor, Mr. MacPherson, and never looked another stargazy pie in the pilchard's eye again.”

There was general laughter, then Damien asked, “This property you speak of—are there tin mines?”

“Yes, all could be in excellent working order. Money will have to be spent to bring the equipment back up to par. The water pumps for the most part need to be replaced, and as for the engine houses, many of them are falling apart. I understand the
miners are in a bad way. They don't wish to continue mining when the shafts could flood at any time.”

It would cost quite a bit of money, Victoria thought, if the situation were as grim as Rafael had painted it. A lot of her money. But he sounded genuinely interested in the tin mines. Perhaps he would be content on land and not want to return to his ship and the sea.

Later that evening, in the Pewter Room, Victoria asked Rafael once again to tell her the truth, but he merely smiled at her and shook his head. “I've said too much already.” Then he began undressing, remaining infuriatingly obtuse, and silent as a clam. “You know,” he said thoughtfully as she was frowning at him in impotent silence, “if you weren't being so damned womanly at the moment, I could have stopped this argument before it progressed to the first raised-voice octave.”

“I simply want to know the extent of your involvement,” she repeated.

“No danger. Come and let me unfasten that gown.” She turned her back to him, and in a moment felt his lips lightly caress the nape of her neck. She bowed her head, wanting him to continue.

She felt his hands come around her waist and pull her back against him. “Much too long a time for us,” he said, his breath warm on her neck. “Of course, the truth be told, a day is too long. Don't you agree?”

She would have agreed with just about anything at that moment. His hands had roved upward and were cupping her breasts. He was filling his open palms with her, squeezing, caressing. She arched her back, leaning her head against his shoulder. She made a small mewling sound and Rafael closed his eyes with the pleasure of it.

“Would you like me to give you release, Victoria?” Even as he spoke those beguiling words, she felt his
hand glide down her belly, lower, until he was gently pressing and probing against her. He could feel the heat of her through her layers of underthings and her gown. And, unbeknownst to her, she was pressing her hips forward, against his fingers. He was delighted.

She felt immense desire mixed with embarrassment. To stand here against him while his fingers . . . She simply couldn't allow that.

It hurt, truly, but she slowly pulled away from him. “No,” she said, her voice just above a croak.

“Why not? You want me to.”

“No. I can't.”

She didn't see his grin, merely felt his arms come around her very gently. “Give me but another month as your husband, and you will forget all your foolish precepts of what a lady should or shouldn't want or like or allow. And then, Victoria, I'll give you pleasure whenever and wherever the spirit moves either of us. All right?”

“I don't know. It's embarrassing.”

“It's the truth, that's all. Now, sweetheart, let's climb into our nest, ring down the curtains, and enjoy our frustrated dreams.”

 

Amid the cluster of grapes exquisitely carved in the upper-right-hand corner of the fireplace frieze, a very small wooden panel slipped back into place noiselessly and smoothly. To see her naked and writhing in Rafael's arms, that was what he wanted to see, but this brief prologue had been exciting, immensely exciting. He could still picture her arched back against Rafael, while his hand was stroking her. He sucked in his breath, feeling the swelled flesh between his thighs. He was painfully aroused. He eased back along the narrow, cobwebbed passage, finally pressed a button, and slipped into the small
estate room at the back of Drago Hall. He stood silently for a moment, shivering just a bit, for the passage was damp and clammy. Soon, he thought.

“Oh. The Almighty save me. My lord. I didn't know anyone was in here.”

Damien looked up at Ligger, seeing that his butler's face was utterly without color, one hand over his chest. He could well imagine the old man's shock.

“I am ready to seek out my bed now, Ligger. Go to bed yourself. I will ensure that all the lights are doused downstairs and the doors bolted.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” said Ligger, who tottered out of the room he would have sworn was empty but five minutes before.

Damien smiled without much humor, unconsciously eased his clothes around his still-swelled sex, and made his way upstairs to his wife's bedchamber.

 

Victoria felt as if a weight had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders the moment their carriage bowled out of the Drago Hall drive. She patted Rafael's arm when he slammed his cane head on the roof of the carriage not five minutes later to have Flash pull over.

“Sorry, but you know this weakness of mine.”

“It's not one of my favorite pastimes to ride with a green-faced man,” she said.

And he was gone, to mount his stallion, Gadfly.

She shook her head and settled back against the soft leather squabs. Damien's carriage was very comfortable and luxurious; she would give him that.

They arrived in the bustling market town of Truro late in the afternoon, Rafael having made innumerable stops along the way. He'd spoken to a tin-mine owner in Trevelland and visited a mine just two miles east of Truro itself. The Gwithian Inn was doing a fine business and Rafael was greeted warmly
by Mr. Fooge, who believed him at first to be the Baron Drago.

“Ah, Master Rafael,” he said, rubbing his fat hands together upon correction, “so alike you and your brother are. And this is your lovely wife? A pleasure, ma'am, such a pleasure. Do come along, Master Rafael.”

“As loquacious as ever,” Rafael said once he and Victoria were shown to their large airy bedchamber some minutes later.

She smiled at him, and immediately made her way to the window that looked toward the market square. Today wasn't a market day, and the stalls were empty, looking somehow abandoned and forlorn. Rafael came up behind her and said softly, “Do you know what day this is, Victoria?”

“Your birthday?”

“No, my birthday is in January. I trust you won't forget. No, today is a day of celebration. We can call it the Carstairs' gratification ceremony.”

“Ah,” she said, feeling at once excited and embarrassed and very eager, the truth be told.

Rafael wasn't blind or unversed in the moods of women. He smiled blandly down at his bride, knowing very well that the reins of control were firmly in his two strong hands. He wondered just how long he would tease her. Perhaps it would lessen the amount of time she would feel embarrassed around him in the future.

“Shall we change for dinner?”

Victoria could only stare up at him. “What?”

“Change for dinner,” he repeated patiently.

“But I thought that . . . “

“What, my dear?”

But Victoria hadn't been raised to baldly state that she wanted her husband in her bed.

“You're a bully,” she said, and pulled away from him.

“Very well, Victoria. I wish to speak to Mr. Rinsey for a few minutes before we dine. He is the Demoreton solicitor with whom I have been dealing.” He flicked a finger over her cheek and was gone.

Nature made him, and then broke the mould.

—L
UDOVICO
A
RISTO

P
erversity, Victoria thought as she ate her delicious roast lamb and suet dumplings across the small oak table from her husband, was more the prerogative of the male than the female. Rafael was regaling her, with all the enthusiasm of a male very pleased with himself, about this Mr. Rinsey, a bespectacled, stoop-shouldered gentleman who couldn't manage to disguise the urgency of the sale of the Demoreton property.

Finally, when Mrs. Fooge had given them their rich apricot blancmange dessert, Rafael came to a final halt in his endless monologue. He cocked a black brow at Victoria

“Did you say something, Victoria?”

“Me? Say something? Speak when you are declaiming fit for the diplomatic service? Actually, I have been enjoying a fascinating internal conversation.” She broke off, her thoughts flying forward. She lowered her head and her hands fisted in her lap. It simply had to stop. It had to. There were no thick, full hangings on their bed upstairs. There was even a wide window that admitted, she well imagined, a
surfeit of moonlight. And there was a brilliant half-moon this evening.

But she was still furious at him for his damnable distrust. He didn't deserve any explanation from her, even though it should sink him in guilt. And perhaps revulsion. She knew at that moment that she wouldn't be able to bear it if he looked at her leg and felt sickened. And she would know, no matter how he would try to hide it.

He hadn't touched her sexually during the past five nights, save for holding her while she slept, and of course she'd worn a full flannel nightgown. But tonight, if he were to make love to her in the blackest pit on earth, he would still feel the dreadful ridged scar along the outside of her left thigh. She also knew that tonight he was impatient with her so-called ugliness and would touch every inch of her.

In an unconscious gesture her fingers went unerringly to the scar and slowly she began to knead the muscles through her gown and petticoats.

When she realized what she was doing, her eyes went to her husband's face and she said, her voice sounding distressed to Rafael's ears, “I'm very tired, Rafael.”

He wasn't certain what kind of game she was playing with him, but he only smiled, refusing to join in. “You may nod off over your blancmange.” He gave an ostentatious look at his watch. “I will give you fifteen minutes, no more.”

She was more than aware of the determination in his voice.

“Stop it!” She jumped to her feet, her chair skidding over and falling with a muffled thud on Mrs. Fooge's thick wool rug.

Her yell sounded very loud in the small private parlor and neither of them was surprised to hear Mr.
Fooge call from outside the closed door, “Is anything wrong, Master Rafael?”

“Everything is fine, Mr. Fooge. My wife merely slipped, but she is unhurt.”

They heard a grunt, a flurry of low voices, then Mr. Fooge's retreating footsteps.

Rafael regarded her from beneath lowered eyelashes. She was excessively upset, as if she'd just recalled something that bothered her immensely. What could it be? Before, she'd been excessively desirous of bedding him. Impossible for him to be mistaken about that.

“What has changed, Victoria?” He started, surprised that he'd spoken aloud.

“Changed?” she repeated in a wary voice, keeping her distance. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you quite clearly wanted me earlier, but now you seem . . . well, terrified of bedding me. I am just a man, my dear, and am feeling justly confused.”

Victoria looked him straight in his beautiful eyes. “I don't want you. Now, that is. I'm tired. Truly. I'm going to bed.”

He said nothing for many moments, merely looked at her. “Very well,” he said at last, stretching his arms above his head and leaning his head back. “Good night, my dear Victoria. Sleep well. I'll wake you early. Mr. Rinsey will be meeting us at the Demoreton property at eleven o'clock in the morning.”

She stood there staring at him, feeling like a reefed sail on calm water. She wasn't quite certain what she'd expected him to say or do after her announcement, but utter disinterest wasn't on her list.

“Must I give you a good-night kiss?”

She fled from the private parlor, his voice echoing in her mind.

Victoria didn't fall asleep for a very long time. It seemed to her at least a fortnight, but as she had no watch, she had no way of knowing.

Rafael looked down at her outline, clear in the moonlight from the window. She was sleeping soundly on her left side. Her hair was loose and fanned about her head on the pillow. Her right leg was drawn up, and that made him grin. It seemed that even in her sleep, Victoria's body wanted to yield to him, to give him an unmistakable, quite splendid invitation.

He was quickly naked, his clothing folded neatly over the back of the single chair. As quietly as he could, he slipped under the covers beside her. The bed was thankfully firm and didn't form a trough in the middle as he eased over next to her. She remained asleep, still on her left side. Slowly he began to inch up her nightgown.

“Silly little wench,” he whispered. She muttered something in her sleep and obligingly shifted her weight when he eased her nightgown over her thighs.

He gazed down at her long slender legs and her quite delicious hips. Round and soft, so inviting that he couldn't keep his hands off her. He touched her as lightly as a moth's wings, and when he couldn't bear it any longer, he pressed his middle finger gently between her parted thighs, searching and probing and entering her finally. She was incredibly hot, small and tender, and he closed his eyes and groaned.

He eased down beside her and slowly guided himself into her. He couldn't believe the feelings that slashed through him as she took more and more of him. Her smallness, the unconscious squeezing of her muscles that held him firmly, then drew him deep into her, made him nearly wild with lust. He wanted
her awake now, and began to knead her soft belly with his right hand as he slipped his left arm beneath her.

“Victoria,” he said between light, nipping kisses on her right earlobe, her throat, her cheek. “Come on, love, wake up for me, feel me, yell for me.”

Victoria woke up. She was stunned. She didn't move, but it was just for an instant. He was inside her and his fingers were now roving down her belly to touch her She was flooded with the most wonderful feelings imaginable. “Oh,” she whispered.

Rafael pressed his palm against her, pushing her hips back against him, driving his member deeper. When his fingers found her, her breath exploded in gasps from her throat and she tried to twist around so he could kiss her.

“I can't, Victoria. Shove back with your hips. That's right. Now, just enjoy. You like this, don't you?” His fingers deepened their rhythmic pressure and she quivered.

“Don't you?”

“. . . I do like. . .“

“And this?” She felt his finger press inward, coming inside her with his sex, and she cried out, an eager, frustrated, wanting cry that made him feel like the lord and master of all the world.

Rafael increased his speed, his thrusts as powerful and deep as he could make them, all the while driving her distracted with his caressing and probing fingers. He felt her near her climax and concentrated on her movements, her reactions. When she broke, arching madly against him, crying softly, he thought he would yell himself from the wonder of it. Slowly he eased and soothed her; then, just when she was calming, he increased the pressure again.

To his immense pleasure, he felt her quicken and
respond fully and naturally. And again he brought her to pleasure, only this time he joined her.

“You're delightfully sweaty.”

Victoria heard his soft, drawling comment just outside her right ear. She wondered if she could speak. She could barely think. She was aware that her breasts were still heaving, as if she were starved for air. “Am I really?”

Well, three words that did make some sense wasn't a bad beginning.

“Yes, you are.” He kissed her cheek and her throat. He was still deep inside her. “And you're wonderful. You enjoyed yourself, Victoria.”

“Perhaps.”

“Twice, actually, and very loudly. I fear the walls of our room are rather thin. If we have neighbors, I do wonder what they are now doing. Or thinking.”

“Be quiet. I still don't like you at all.”

“No liking, truly? And here I am still a part of you, a very deep part.”

She quivered, squeezing him inadvertently, and he moaned, his lips pressed against her shoulder. “Lovely,” he said, and wrapped himself tightly around her. “You've worn me to a bone, my dear. I believe I will nod off now. I've done my husbandly duty.”

Victoria found herself grinning in the darkness. Then she remembered her leg. Her breath caught in her throat. It was some moments before she realized that she was lying on her left side, that she'd been on her left side the entire time. He hadn't touched her there, he hadn't been able to. She'd been safe yet another time.

“I prefer to think of it as a wifely duty,” she said, and pushed her buttocks against his groin. She felt
him tense and said, “Forgive me, I'm simply getting more comfortable.”

He laughed, kissed the back of her ear, cuddled closer, and was soon deeply asleep.

Victoria wasn't. She felt him leaving her, slowly, but still he held her very close. She felt the thick hair of his chest against her smooth back. It felt good. Everything about him felt good. And exciting. And tantalizing. His legs were curved into the hollows of hers. She sighed.

“But I can't be on my left side all my life,” she said in a small, very tired whisper to the now-silent bedchamber.

“Hmmm? Go back to sleep, Victoria,” came Rafael's voice. “It's still dark. We don't have to get up yet.”

 

They reached the town of St. Agnes in good time the following morning. As Flash negotiated the narrow cobbled streets with more enthusiasm than skill, Victoria was leaning halfway out the carriage window, interested in everything.

Rafael pulled Gadfly alongside the carriage. “Look yon, Victoria. This is called the Stippy-Stappy—those long-stepped terraces of tin miners' cottages. The men set off to work their shifts in West Kitty, Wheal Kitty, Blue Hills, just to name a few of the larger tin mines.”

“How do you know so much about these mines? Stippy-Stappy and the names?”

“I'm a manly man and thus automatically know these things,” he said.

“And that book I see in your pocket?”

The cobbled street narrowed and Rafael was forced to pull Gadfly ahead of the carriage. They turned onto High Street and Victoria marveled at the row after row of slate and granite cottages.

It was but a short distance to St. Agnes Head and the Demoreton property. Flash turned the carriage off the narrow country road some ten minutes later and they bowled down a narrow weed-infested drive to a Queen Anne manor house that was so entangled with ivy that Victoria felt a flood of depression. However would the interior look? she wondered, sinking fast in gloom.

Mr. Rinsey was just as Rafael had described him, and the manor house was a dismal place, to be sure, the Demoreton family having moved out some three months before, when another party had offered for the house, then met an untimely end before the sale could be finalized.

“So, unfortunately, the house has been empty,” said Mr. Rinsey apologetically. He was sweating profusely, Victoria noted, feeling quite sorry for him.

She said to Rafael, “It has possibilities if one hires a good dozen gardeners with shears to clear away all the ivy.”

“I agree. A baker's dozen. Come inside and let's see what's in store for us there.”

They toured the house. The rooms on the ground floor were dark and gloomy, fulfilling Victoria's pessimistic expectations, but with the removal of the ghastly cabbage-rose wall coverings in the main drawing room and the burning of the intensely ugly puce brocade draperies that hovered over nearly every downstairs window, the main floor would become charming. As for the rooms above stairs, they were, to Victoria's mind, nearly ready for occupation, save for the musty, closed-up smell. The master bedchamber was a huge L-shaped room filled with light and a clear prospect of the distant cliff and the ocean.