Moonspun Magic (18 page)

But he didn't disappear, of course.

“How? I was so quiet.”

“It occurred to me that you weren't in an excessively intelligent frame of mind. Only a female would decide to run away with fifteen pounds. You have proved your stupidity by this stunt.”

“Oh, I have more than a paltry fifteen pounds.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, she wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She eyed the stallion's back and gauged her chance of climbing into the saddle and running Rafael down.

“Don't try it, Victoria. As to your meager fortune, I already checked. You didn't try to steal my money. Of course, that would have meant creeping into my bedchamber. I couldn't see you doing that. After all,
I might have awakened, and then you would have shortly found yourself in my bed, on your back.”

She forced herself to straighten and face him fully. There was a good twenty feet between them and it gave her courage. “Why are you doing this? Why aren't you delighted that I wish to leave and be gone from your life?”

His right hand slashed through the air. “Were you doing to sell my stallion once you reached London?”

“No.” Actually, she now realized that she probably would have thought of that, sooner or later.

“If you managed to make it to London, of course, which I strongly doubt. No smugglers, not here, in any case, but there are bandits, Victoria, who would be ecstatic to come across a delightful morsel like you.”

“Why would you care?”

“After, of course, they raped you, they would probably kill you.”

“Why would you care?” she repeated. “Then there would be no question that all my money would be yours.”

“There is no question of that now, with you quite alive.”

“I don't believe you. It would be too unfair. No, you are lying to me.”

“My feet are cold,” he said abruptly. “Come along back to the house.”

“No, I'm not going anywhere with you.”

He heard the panic in her voice and it bothered him. It made him feel guilty as hell. Damn her, she'd lied to him, she didn't deserve any consideration.

“Come here, Victoria.”

“No. And since you appear to be so very concerned about my lack of funds, I fully plan to sell my ring. Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me how much of my money you paid for it?”

“About a thousand pounds.”

“Poor Rafael,” she said, trying for a credible sneer, “now you have only forty-nine thousand pounds left. Believe me, there will be much less for you when I am done.”

“Actually,” he said quite calmly, “there will shortly be a good deal less for me. I intend to have Mr. Westover draw up papers for half your inheritance to go into a trust for our children.”

She drew up, astounded. “I don't believe you. Damien would never have—”

“Don't compare me with my brother again, Victoria.”

“I don't believe you,” she said again.

She stared at him, watching him walk toward her, and something deep inside her snapped. With a broken cry, she kicked up, trying to thrust her foot into a stirrup. Then his arms closed around her waist and he was pulling her back. She yelled, calling him the few names she knew, and heard him laugh.

The stallion whinnied and jerked away from them both. In the next instant she was lying on the floor of the stable. Rafael grabbed the panicked stallion's bridle and began soothing the animal. With quick, efficient movements he removed the saddle and her valise. Then he led Gadfly back into his stall, still speaking low nonsense words to him. He didn't look at her until he'd calmed the animal and closed the stall door.

“Stand up, Victoria. Don't make me carry you.”

Slowly she came up on her knees. The muscles in her leg were tightening, she could feel them, and knew she must ease them. She must stand up.

He watched her slowly rise. Bits of straw clung to her cloak, her face was pale, and despite himself, he thought her beautiful and so very desirable, that his groin ached. He picked up her valise and turned
away from her. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder.

Another exercise in futility, she thought, trailing after him. She saw him wince when his bare foot hit against a sharp pebble, but he kept going.

She found herself studying him, his strong, straight back, his long legs. His thick black hair was disheveled. And she remembered, so very clearly, how she'd felt when he'd kissed her and caressed her on their wedding night. Such feelings she'd never imagined. She shook her head at herself. She was a fool. Evidently she should have showed more hesitation, more maidenly fright. It simply hadn't occurred to her not to act naturally with him. Didn't men want honesty? She sighed.

Men were the oddest creatures.

Mrs. Ripple was in the kitchen when Victoria followed Rafael back into the house. Her step was quicker up the stairs. She didn't want to be caught in such an unexplainable situation by the housekeeper. “Oh, yes,” she could hear herself saying, “I was running away from my husband because I responded too freely with him on our wedding night and he believed his brother and thinks me a whore.”

She wondered vaguely if she would ever forgive him for believing his brother's lies. And all because she'd wanted to become his wife and all because she was terrified that he would be repelled by her leg.

“Go back to bed,” he said shortly, and left her at her bedchamber door, the valise at her feet. He turned suddenly, and said very softly, “Don't try such a stunt again, Victoria. You wouldn't like the consequences, I promise you.”

She took off her clothes, pulled a cotton nightgown over her head, and crept into her bed. She had to think, to decide what she would do now, but she
was wretchedly tired, and within a few moments she was sound asleep.

Rafael quietly opened the adjoining-room door. He saw her huddled in the middle of her bed. What the devil should he do now? His marriage, begun with such promise and confidence, had fallen about his head in a shambles. He left the adjoining door open and walked back into his own room. He flung himself down on his own bed and pillowed his head on his arms. He stared at the white ceiling. He had to know, damn her, he had to. But he couldn't rape her. He'd been honest about that. It wasn't his style; indeed, he had nothing but contempt for men who treated women in such a callous fashion. No, he couldn't do that. What he had to do, he decided finally, was to seduce her. Then he would know once and for all.
And if she isn't a virgin? What will you do then, you stupid sod?

He wouldn't think about it. He would simply deal with it if it happened.
But what is her grand confession? Whatever could a supposedly young innocent girl have to confess in the middle of lovemaking, for God's sake?
He found himself trying to remember her exact series of responses to him. Had she acted at all surprised when he'd first kissed her? He could feel her trembling against him, feel her part her lips.

Had he really expected her to shrink from him? Had he wanted her to be shy and frightened of sex so he could play the gallant, patient lover? Was he such a fool to have seen himself in the part of her mentor, her gentle husband who would teach her according to rules of his own creation to enjoy sex with him?

Of course, he remembered Patricia then. So sweet, so innocent, he'd thought, and he'd been so passionately in love with her, his sixteen-year-old heart filled with her. With all the restraint of a boy desperately
in love, he'd taken her, so afraid that he would hurt her, his sweet, virgin love. She'd cried and whispered that he had hurt her, and he'd begged her forgiveness. And he'd believed with all the fervor of his sixteen years that he was the only man—man, ha!—she wanted. And then he'd found her with Damien. How his brother had laughed and taunted him.

Rafael couldn't bear those taunting memories, memories that he'd firmly believed were long dead. Until Victoria. He rose quickly, dressed, and left the house. He rode Gadfly until the stallion was lathered and blowing with fatigue.

It was near noon when he returned. Luncheon was laid out in the small dining room. Victoria was seated there, listlessly playing with a thin slice of ham on her plate. She looked up briefly when he entered, then just as quickly lowered her head again.

“Captain. Would you like some luncheon?”

He forced a smile for Mrs. Ripple and nodded.

When she took herself from the room, he forced himself to eat a bit of ham, which was incredibly salty, and buttered potatoes that tasted rancid. The silence was deafening.

He could hear himself chewing the bread, which was alternately crunchy and doughy.

“Victoria,” he said finally, slowly laying down his fork.

She said nothing.

“Would you care to drive into Milton Abbas and see the sights?”

She could only stare at him, completely at sea. “Why?”

“We are on our wedding trip,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Surely we should find some enjoyment.”

Victoria had already thought ahead to the long
empty hours facing her. There was nothing more he could do to her. “All right.”

“Excellent,” he said, and took another bite of ham. “Perhaps we can have something to eat there.”

There was a moldering old mare in the stable, but Victoria preferred riding even that relic to sitting in the closed carriage. The afternoon was clear, the sky light blue dotted with white clouds. They left Tom Merrifield chatting with Mrs. Ripple, that good woman flushed with pleasure at his attentions.

The weather provided conversation fodder for a good five minutes. When it ran dry, Rafael looked at her profile for a moment, then drew a deep breath and said, “If you shouldn't mind too much, tomorrow or perhaps the next day we can continue to Cornwall. I wish to stay at Drago Hall for a week or two, that is all. Just to give me enough time to find the land where I want to build my home.”

“Perhaps you will find a house already there that you like,” she said, closing her eyes against the awful return to Drago Hall and Damien and Elaine.

She hadn't refused outright to go to Drago Hall, and he wondered about that. He'd expected her to shriek invectives when he told her. He looked at her and saw that she was smiling. At what? Damien?

“That appears to please you,” he said, and she heard the suspicion in his voice.

“Yes, it does. I have sorely missed Damaris. I have cared for her a good deal since her birth.”

“Yes, I remember your mentioning her now. You would not mind staying at Drago Hall for a while?”

She chewed on her lower lip, staring between the old mare's ears.

“Your position would be quite different, you know, from before. I assume you were at Elaine's beck and call.”

“Yes, but I didn't mind. After all, until a very short time ago I believed myself a poor relation.”

“Now you are my wife.”

He sounded possessive, and that surprised her. She said nothing.

She felt his hand lightly touch her arm, and she turned to face him. “You are mine, Victoria,” he said again. “I want no more strife between us.”

She looked at his hand, his long fingers. “The strife was of your making, Rafael.”

“That is true. I wish now to unmake it.”

“Do you truly mean it?”

He dropped his hand from her arm. The hopefulness in her voice shook him, made him hate himself, and his deception. Well, it was what he wanted. He wanted her trust. He wanted her to smile again. He wanted to make love to her and then he would see.

“Yes,” he said, “I truly mean it.”

I do desire we may be better strangers.

—S
HAKESPEARE

T
he problem, Victoria thought objectively, was that she became besotted when he was with her, notably when he basted her, just as Mrs. Ripple would a birthday ham, with his particular brand of charm. She disliked feeling this way immensely. Rafael didn't deserve anything but the most rancid of reactions from her after what he had done. She sighed.

He had, in the most sincere manner possible, asked her for a truce.

When he wasn't with her, as he wasn't now, she remembered well his nastiness on their wedding night and her two feet were firmly planted in blunt reality. And his afternoon charm had worn off a bit, like rice powder.

Victoria knew she wanted to believe Rafael had changed from a bitter and vindictive man to the charming and loving man she'd ridden with all afternoon. After all, an olive branch was an olive branch, and he'd offered it so charmingly. She sighed again as she slipped her blue silk gown over her head. And she had unbent so completely to him, grabbing that olive branch with great alacrity. And for more than just a little while. He quite simply blinded her with his charm.

At least now, away from him, she thought, viciously forcing the last button through its small opening, she could see things more clearly. She sat at her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. She frowned at her face. Why? Why had Rafael changed?

It was miserable to be constantly at war with each other. But he had started the war. Since that was the case, she supposed he believed he could just as easily and quickly end it.

She leaned closer to the mirror as she threaded a dark blue velvet ribbon through the curls atop her head. In the soft candlelight, flashing beacons of red and blond and deep brown shimmered through her chestnut hair. She decided that she looked well enough.

She paused a moment, turning slightly toward the mirror behind her dressing table. Perhaps it was the candlelight or the high ceilings of her bedchamber that gave off strange shadows and shades, but she realized with a start that she looked not just well enough. She looked well beyond acceptable. She stared a moment at her bare shoulders and nearly bare bosom, pushed upward by the stiff band of material beneath her breasts. White, she thought. She looked very white and soft and very female. And Rafael would think so.

And that was why he wanted to make peace with her.

He wanted to take her to bed.

He wanted to know if she was a virgin.

How could a man know that? she wondered, turning away from the mirror. Could a woman tell if a man were also a virgin?

Victoria pulled back her shoulders and headed down the winding staircase to the small drawing room on the first floor. Rafael was waiting for her there, a snifter of brandy in his hand. He looked
remarkably handsome in his severe black evening garb, offset with the snowy white linen. A man shouldn't be blessed with such a silver shade of gray eyes or with such thick long lashes.

Then he smiled at her and she felt like a very cloudy day that had just been given a strong dose of sun.

“You look lovely,” she blurted out.

Rafael blinked, for words of a similar nature had been on his tongue, ready to fire off. “Thank you,” he said, grinning. “You're not such an affliction for the eyes yourself. You look enchanting in that shade of blue.”

She merely nodded at his compliment, seeing him with new eyes. He was her husband, yes, he was, and he also looked quite determined and steely behind that layer of charming nonsense he was spreading so smoothly.

“Would you care for a glass of sherry?”

She nodded again. When he handed her the crystal glass, his fingers lightly touched hers. His flesh felt warm and smooth and hard. She willed herself to show no reaction. She should, she thought bitterly, as a virgin, jump out of her skin with maidenly fright whenever he even came near her. If he touched her, she supposed she should shriek with downright horror. She did nothing, merely stood quietly and silently, sipping her sherry.

At that moment, Mrs. Ripple appeared in the doorway, a smile on her wide mouth that showed the space between her front teeth, to announce dinner.

“She always smiles when she tells us to come to a meal,” Victoria said. “It makes me feel like the sacrificial lamb. I wonder what she has concocted this evening.”

“I just hope it's recognizable,” Rafael said as he offered her his arm. She grinned and he decided that
the truce was going well. So he looked lovely, did he? That made him want to smile. No woman had quite told him that before. As for his wife, he was honest: she looked immensely pretty, both in and out of that blue silk. As a man with some experience with women, he knew she'd spent more than a usual amount of time on her appearance. That pleased him. The night ahead would progress nicely, he hoped, and not become the desert of the past nights.

There was no conversation between them until Mrs. Ripple, having served them, left them alone in the small dining room to face the dinner.

“I believe it's beef,” Victoria said. “Boiled.”

“Yes, but it won't be too dry. All the fat is on it.”

Whatever was on it, Victoria ignored the platter and took a helping of boiled potatoes and carrots. She began to eat without thinking about the taste of boiled parsley.

“She does try, very hard,” she said after some moments.

“Yes. If we were fat folk, she would be the perfect cook.”

“Rafael?”

“Hmmm?” Rafael didn't look up. He was at the moment intent on cutting off a large ridge of fat from a slice of beef.

“How can a woman tell if a man is a virgin?”

His fork clattered to the plate. He looked at her perfectly serious face in blank surprise.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, buying himself some time. What the devil was she up to now?

“I asked you,” she said patiently, “how a woman can tell if a man is a virgin.”

“Your dinner-table conversation is unusual. Is this the first sign that you have embarked on an improper career?”

He was smiling at her, and that devastating
white-toothed smile robbed his words of insult. Victoria didn't take offense, she merely shrugged. “There's no one else to ask.”

“You want to know how a woman can tell if a man is a virgin.” He toyed with his fork a moment, a long moment, and said finally, “A woman can't tell, at least she can't tell from any physical signs. I suppose if the man were particularly inept, she could guess that he was. Without any prior experience, that is.”

He had watched her closely as he spoke. He wished he knew what was going on in that head of hers. He was quickly to find out.

“Is it the same with a woman? A man can't tell physically? He can only guess, if she is inept?”

So that was it, he thought. Hadn't she bled with the first man she'd been with? Hadn't it hurt her? Very well, he would tell her the truth, even though she probably already knew. It didn't matter if it were her plan to pretend virginity. He wasn't a fool. He said calmly, crossing his arms over his chest, “Actually, a woman is fashioned physically to prove her virginity.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, feeling anger stirring, despite his intentions toward peace, “that a woman usually has a stretch of skin inside her that is broken when the first man enters her. When it's broken, she bleeds. Also, there is pain because the woman's passage isn't used to having a man's member inside, and depending on the size of the man, it can, I suppose, hurt a great deal.”

She paled as he spoke, but he didn't regret speaking so bluntly. Damn her, if she wanted him to be crude about it, he would oblige her. First, though, he said, his voice harsh, “Do you understand?”

She heard the incredulity in his voice, the
suspicion, the anger, and nearly smiled at the image of his olive branch fast withering. “I suppose so,” she said finally. It didn't sound at all pleasant, this lovemaking business. As to his male member, she had no difficulty at all remembering Rafael's their wedding night. If memory served, he was quite large and she supposed that meant that it would hurt a good deal. He would thrust that part of himself into her. All of it? In the light of day, without him touching her, it was truly a ghastly thought. She didn't like it, not one bit. But then she remembered more of her wedding night and the wild uncontrol Rafael had made her feel. None of it made any sense, none at all.

Rafael said in a coldly stern voice reminiscent of his father, “Don't even try it, Victoria. I'm not an idiot, nor am I blind. I remember hearing once how a bride, to keep her husband believing her virtuous, had a vial of chicken blood with her on her wedding night. She screamed when he entered her and then smeared the chicken blood on her thighs. Unfortunately for her, she didn't get away with it. Her husband wasn't pleased when he found the vial beneath her pillow, some chicken blood still in it. Nor would I be pleased.”

“Chicken blood,” Victoria repeated. “She used chicken blood?” She burst out laughing—she couldn't help herself. It was too ludicrous.

“Look, Mrs. Ripple has made some baked chicken. On that plate there, the greasy-looking hunks of meat.” She hugged herself and laughed harder. “At least it's not boiled like the beef.”

Rafael stared at her.

“I should go to the kitchen immediately. You must tell me how much I would need. Ah, but I am beset with the problem of a vial. Surely Mrs. Ripple would have something of a useful nature about. If not a vial, then a . . . a what, Rafael? An empty wine bottle? No,
much too large.” Tears streamed from her eyes, she was laughing so hard.

“Stop it, Victoria. Now.”

She sniffed, hiccuped, giggled, then managed to pick up her napkin and gently dab at her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said at last. “You're an amusing storyteller, Rafael. Have you other tales I should enjoy as much as that one?”

“I could finish that one, if you wish.”

He didn't wait for her to reply, merely continued in an emotionless voice, “The husband sent the wife off to a godforsaken estate in Northumberland. Sure enough, in six months she birthed a bastard. He refused ever to see her again.”

“I don't think I like that story after all,” Victoria said. “It doesn't end well.”

“Doesn't it? Should he have divorced her? Wrung her neck?”

“No, he should have asked her why she did it. I would assume that he had some affection for her.”

“She played him false and lied to him. He knew enough.”

“What happened to the child?”

“I don't know.”

“So,” Victoria said, sitting back in her chair, gazing at her very lovely husband down the expanse of dining table, “this is what you think I'm doing to you? You are afraid I'm with child? A bastard?”

“I hope that you're not.”

“Your twin's bastard? How difficult that would be. After all, the child would resemble you. Whatever would you do?”

“Victoria,” he said, his teeth gritted, “shut up. I want no more of this from you.”

“Oh, I understand now. Of course, if the child were yours, it would be born nine months after you committed your sexual act. Any earlier, the good
Lord help me, and there is yet another bastard to populate the earth.”

“Victoria, I told you to be quiet.”

“Your peace offering is growing more tattered and unrecognizable by the moment, Rafael.”

“I'm not used to ladies asking me the symptoms of virginity. Surely it's not all that proper a topic of conversation.”

“Little we've spoken of would qualify, I think, as proper.”

She began to pare the warm skin off a peach. He watched her graceful fingers. “Untouched by Mrs. Ripple's housewifely hands,” she said.

He poured himself another glass of wine. In silence.

“I have chanced upon some proper conversation,” she said at last as she chewed on a peach slice. “Here it is. It will be difficult returning to Drago Hall. Perhaps Damien won't want us there. I can't imagine that he would ever wish to see either of us again. After all, Rafael, you did take what he must have seen as his fifty thousand pounds.”