"No," Lucy whispered. "Only the happiest."
Ian chuckled. "You'd best brace yourself, my lad," he said to Valcour. "With this hoyden daughter of mine and two new babes to turn things upside down, your life will never be the same."
"Thank God for that," the earl of Valcour said, kissing the petal-soft brow of first his son, then his daughter, his eyes shining with reverence and gratitude as he looked into the smiling face of his wife.
It was well past three in the morning when Lucy finally left the bedchamber assigned to her parents. The three of them had talked until they were hoarse, laughing and teasing, catching up on two years of gossip. Valcour had excused himself two hours before, citing some business affairs to be put in order. He hadn't fooled Lucy for a moment. The man who had been so tyrannical, so cold, was the most thoughtful of lovers, and he had instinctively given her the gift of some time alone with the parents she adored.
It had been heavenly, for just a little while, to sink into the role of Raider's daughter again—cosseted, petted, teased and loved. And it had been wonderful to ease all her parents' niggling fears about the sudden marriage that had stolen her away two years before.
Valcour loved her—desperately, completely, with not the tiniest corner of his heart withheld from her. Even Pendragon remarked on it. And no one knew more than Lucy how much it had cost her father to grudgingly admit that her husband was a damned fine man, even if he was born English.
But when Lucy finally slipped up to the room she shared with Valcour, the bed was empty again.
She didn't even bother checking the study. She went straight to the open door of the nursery.
Valcour sat in a chair beside the window, moonlight streaming over features so serene, Lucy knew she would never tire of looking at them. Those strong arms she had clung to during the hours she had labored to bring forth his dark-eyed babies now cradled the twins as if they were the rarest of treasures. He was murmuring something to them, secrets that they alone could hear.
But the girl-child snuffled with impatience, her tiny fists waving in regal displeasure. Her father only smiled, a smile so peaceful it broke Lucinda's heart. Valcour knew what his little one wanted, and he gave her a gift still magical, still wondrously new, though the babies had heard it a thousand times.
Valcour's rich baritone drifted into the night as he sung the lullaby his children never tired of hearing. Dante yawned, his lashes drifting shut in contentment. But little Aria's eyes were opened wide in the moonlight. She stared up at Valcour, her winsome face enraptured, her restless little spirit soothed in the haven of her father's embrace.
The Raider's daughter crossed the room and knelt at her husband's feet to watch in wonder as the strains of the "Night Song" enchanted another little girl, carrying her away to a magic place where tower rooms awaited and princesses awoke.
But the "Night Song" no longer whispered to Lucy of yearning but, rather, of hope fulfilled, dreams realized, and a love that would last forever.
She had tamed the Hawk of Valcour to her hand.
The reward was a sweeter one than she had ever known.
Preview To Catch a Flame
When Lord Griffin Stone disarms the highwayman trying to rob him, he discovers his assailant is spitfire Isabeau DeBurgh. Unwilling to condemn her to hang or free her to steal again, Griffin decides to make her a lady—except Isabeau scorns the aristocrats she robs. Can love tame her wild heart?
* * *
The brace of pistols appeared ludicrous in Molly Maguire's small-boned hands, and she stared down at the weapons pillowed upon her lap, her huge eyes somber. "Beau, this is madness." Her warning echoed softly about the tiny inn room. "You cannot ride tonight."
"Don't be a gudgeon, Moll!" Isabeau DeBurgh tossed her flame-red curls, her green eyes snapping with excitement as she retrieved the weapons, her most cherished possessions. "It is a perfect night for raiding."
"A perfect night to get yourself hanged."
"Molly, can't you see it?" Isabeau made her most ghastly demon face, her voice dropping into the low, eerie tones that she knew sent shivers up her friend's spine. "There is moon enough to cast sinister shadows." She fluttered her fingers, drawing nearer to Molly. "And the wind whispers like haunts through the branches... it makes those pompous, jewel-encrusted oafs who travel the highroads quiver down to their diamond shoe buckles even before they've left the safety of their fete or musicale."
"Beau," Molly said, shrinking back against the crude wooden chair. "You know I loathe it when you make your voice that way!"
But Beau ignored her plea, unable to resist such a susceptible audience. "And the ’ristocrats," she continued in a low purr, "they'll have filled their coachmen with ominous warnings and be clinging to their treasures like a mammy to its babe. I'll wait... wait in the darkness while they shiver with images of night dragons and ghosts in their heads, and then—whoosh!" Beau leaped toward Molly with an ear-splitting howl. "I'll spring from the shadows like a nightmare come real. " Molly's squeak, as she skittered from the chair, filled Beau with glee.
With a jaunty grin Beau straightened. Skirting the narrow bed and slant-topped table, she strode toward the looking glass to arrange the froth of ruffles tumbling down her shirtfront. "And then, Molly, my girl," Beau observed, giving her black breeches a pat of infinite satisfaction, "those pot-bellied curs will hurl their pretties at me—and gladly, relieved that it is not the devil himself come to steal away their souls."
"Pray God they don't hurl something else at you. Like a musket ball or a sword." There was an unaccustomed edge to Molly's gentle voice that stung Beau more than she would admit. "This is no game you are playing at, whether you believe it or not. Look how many highwaymen have been taken to Tyburn Fair. The gibbets line the roadside... everywhere."
Molly shuddered, and Beau's own mind filled with images of the ironbound structures dangling tarred corpses like grisly fruit—a warning to any who would dare take to the High Toby.
But she brushed the sobering thoughts away. Her eyes danced like twin imps as she grinned. "They would have to catch me first. And no mere mortal could ever clap the bold Devil's Flame in chains."
"You cannot know that for certain," Molly cut in, wringing her hands. "It was bad enough before, when it was just Bow Street's runners you had to fear. But ever since—since that grand duke was found..." Molly nibbled her lower lip.
"The only reason you've given half a thought to the Duke of Ravensmoor's demise is that it is splashed all over the Spectator that his scoundrel brother is returned to England. The infamous Lord Griffin Stone—duelist extraordinaire, heartless rogue. No doubt he is greedy to pick his brother's bones."
"I don’t care a whit about Lord Griffin, nor about any of those silly scandals! I tell you, there's been something afoot for months now. Something wicked."
"The only thing 'wicked' afoot that night was Ravensmoor's horsemanship. He deserved to snap his fool neck, bolting about on those roads in the middle of the night."
"But you race about all the time!" Molly blustered. "Darkness has never stopped you! And you know as well as I that the duke didn't merely tumble from his saddle. The streets have been abuzz ever since—"
"It takes precious little to set these streets astir. Ravensmoor fell from his horse, and—"
"Then what about Lily Tymmes and Rebecca Mathers? I doubt either of them ever touched a saddle in their lives."
Even Beau could not stem an inward shiver at this last. The corpses of the two low-born women had been discovered in the dense woodlands skirting the Blowsy Nell Inn. It was whispered that even their mothers could not have recognized their faces, slashed with symbols that could have been carved by Satan's own hand.
Stiffening her shoulders, Beau forced a dismissive snort. "It was awful, what befell those women. But there is no proof the victims were Rebecca or Lil. And furthermore, the murders had nothing to do with Ravensmoor, and still less to do with me. I am no dainty wildflower to be crushed beneath some n
ight stalker's heel. I am the bold Devil's Flame—highwayman, brigand—"
"What you are, Isabeau DeBurgh, is a fool if you believe yourself immune! I know you think me a coward, and maybe I am, but this time it is different, Beau. I feel something is amiss—feel it to the marrow of my bones."
"What? You fear some monster lurking in your imagination will swallow up the Devil's Flame? I think not." Beau's eyes glinted with amused arrogance. "Haven’t you read the pamphlets of late, Mistress Maguire? 'The Flame is a monster of a rogue, with blood-hued eyes and fists the size of anvils. His horse is as swift as death and thrice as daring'."
Beau scooped up her jaunty cocked hat, adjusting its crimson plume. Her irreverent gaze flicked from the headgear to her own petite form mirrored in the looking glass. "It must be the hat."
Despite her best efforts, the corners of Molly's mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. "If it were that simple, I'd take the thing and stuff it in the fire so you would make an end to this idiocy. I swear—"
"No, you never swear," Beau replied, warming at the very real concern in her friend's voice. "You are entirely too sweet and good to keep company with a reprobate like me."
Molly looked away from Beau and caught her lower lip with her teeth.
Beau watched as Molly paced to where a black velvet cloak—prime pickings from a snipe-nosed baronet—was spread upon a narrow bed, the richness of the garment an odd contrast to the humble chamber. Molly smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the fabric.
"Beau, I can't—can't help but blame myself for..." She faltered. "For driving you to ride. It is because of me you need risk again so soon."
"Bah!" Beau denied gruffly, but she could not meet her friend's eyes. "Am I not the daughter of Six Coach Robb, one of the greatest brigands ever to ride? It is just another grand adventure, and I revel in 'em. I only wish you had"—the bantering tone faded from her voice—“wish you had told me things were awry again before..." Beau's voice trailed off. She hated the flush that sprang to Molly's cheeks as they both recalled the previous night. Beau had returned from a fortnight's amusement at Medlenham Fair only to find Molly painfully absent at Old Nell's bidding.
"He—he was not so odious a man." Molly rubbed her fingers upon her petticoats as though to cleanse them of grime. "And it was over... quite soon."
Beau's heart twisted. Shame darted into her friend's brown eyes, shame and a fear that seldom left them for long.
"I think I shall become used to it after a time. Old Nell claims—"
"Old Nell is a shriveled-up bag of nonsense, and you're a goose to listen to her. You'll not become used to any such thing with me around, and now Owen will be riding, too, and will be able to help you." The thought of Molly's fifteen-year-old younger brother soured Beau's mood, but she hid her misgivings.
Owen Maguire was five feet of bumbling, awkward trouble, with a temper too quick by half and a pistol aim so poor it was whispered he couldn't hit the Tower of London if he had his nose smack on Traitor's Gate.
And tonight the Devil's Flame, the highwayman rogue known throughout London for cunning and daring, would be joined by that green lad. Molly had called Beau's rides madness before—but Beau knew it was pure insanity to lug along a boy whose temper was tinder to a brushfire. And yet...
Beau's lips compressed with uncustomary grimness. Last night when Molly had returned from her assignation with one of the brothel's patrons there had been stark fear in the girl's eyes. Timid Molly could scarcely speak to strangers without going white in the face, and to steal away with them to a room upstairs, endure their pawing and grunting was a horror beyond Beau's imaginings.
The thought of that fate made Beau's skin crawl. She had wanted to rail at her friend, furious that the girl had not warned her that she needed more coin to pay her way at the so-called "inn". But one look at the suffering in Molly's face, and Beau had been unable to stay angry.
She had merely drawn out her pistols and told Owen that tonight he would begin to learn the highwayman's trade.
"You are taking him tonight?" Molly's nervous quaver broke into Beau's thoughts. Beau drew her soft leather boots over the tight black breeches she always wore.
"I'm taking him tonight."
"Beau, he... he's not the steadiest sort, Owen isn't. I fear—"
"I know it's hard, but he must learn some skill with which to support the both of you, else you'll be trapped at the Blowsy Nell forever." A defensive note crept into Beau's voice. "I wish I could school him in a printer's trade, or perhaps a solicitor's, but I can't. I can only teach him what I know." And pray he becomes decent enough at it that if anything should befall me, you both will survive, she thought. "I know it is not the best solution," she said aloud, "but I'll take good care of him for you, Moll."
Molly's dark-lashed eyes flashed up, a sad smile on her lips. "Of course you will. And as for... for what you are schooling him in... Beau, no one knows better than I how generous you've been with the two of us. We'd not have survived a month in this city without you. Do you remember when you found us? That awful old baker had me by the petticoats, and Owen—"
"Owen looked like a starved rat." Beau shook her head, remembering the scrawny pair the two had made, crofter children whose parents had been killed by a runaway coach. London had been a labyrinth of terror and cruelty for the orphaned Maguires. They had been cowering before a flour-spattered baker who had discovered them pawing through the refuse heap behind his shop—Molly a wide-eyed eight-year-old, Owen five.
The baker had threatened to see them clapped up in Newgate for thieving when Beau came upon them.
All of ten she had been, nettlesome as a briar patch, all swagger and snap. Hands on hips, she had stomped up and let fly a string of curses so blue they made even the grizzled old man blush. Then, with a well-honed instinct for discovering the weakness beneath one's armor, she had warned the old man that if he persisted, she would bring the wrath of the most feared brigand in all of London down on his head—Jonathan Everard Ramsey, known throughout the city as Gentleman Jack. The baker had roared with laughter until he had peered into Beau's crystal-green eyes.
"It is you, then," the man had said to Beau as he let Molly loose with a surprising gentleness. "The girl Jack tends. Daughter o' Six Coach Robb."
"No one tends me," Beau had flashed back. "Jack only keeps me around because I’m so blessed entertaining."
"Gentleman Jack keeps you around because you be the child of the greatest highwayman that ever lived. Take these two whining pups, if you've mind to, your ladyship." The baker had reached out, ruffling Beau's wild curls with a smile. "Your pap, he robbed me once, an' finer manners I never did see. Made it seem near a privilege that 'e chose us, 'e did. I’ll remember him always. Do 'im honor, girl. Do honor to the memory of Six Coach Robb an' his most beautiful lady."
Beau had puffed up with pride. She remembered so little of the father who'd taken her on wild rides perched upon his glorious night-black horse, the father whose scarlet satins and ringing laughter had delighted her, the father who had meant the world to the beautiful, gently bred woman who'd been Beau's mother.
A twinge of grief stung Beau as she thought of her mother's porcelain-delicate face the last time she saw it. The liveliness and laughter that always bubbled in Lady Lianna had ebbed away, as though the hangman who had dealt her husband death had opened her veins as well. They had buried Lady Lianna at Robb’s side a fortnight after his friends had cut him down from the gibbet.
Seven-year-old Beau had been frightened then, for the first time in her life, and furious with her parents for leaving her alone. Yet she had not been alone for long. He had ridden up, astride a blooded sorrel, his plumes a splash of color upon the drizzly-gray sky. The devilish-handsome face that made women swoon had been astonishingly solemn.
He had swung down from his horse in a flurry of sapphire cloak then strode toward the cluster of mourners ringed about the new-dug grave. Straightaway, he had come to Isabeau, and had swept the cocked hat from
his head, dropping to one knee before her.
Your most obedient servant, my lady Isabeau, he had said softly. My name is Gentleman Jack Ramsey. I rode with your father. I will take care of you now.
And he had—that young man with his flashing smile, and his ready wit. He had schooled Beau in reading, in ciphering, had even tutored her in the classics, which she loathed. He had struggled to teach her manners as well, in memory of her gently bred mother. Yet she had been too much Robb's child to play the budding lady for long—and the swagger, sparkling eyes, and bold ways that had winged her father into legend delighted Jack Ramsey, in spite of himself.
"Remember how poor Mr. Ramsey looked when you dragged Owen and me into the inn?" Molly's voice shook Beau from her unaccustomed foray into the past.
Smiling ruefully, Beau met her friend's eyes. After a moment both girls broke into grins.
"It was a sight worth a king's purse," Beau said with great relish. "Gentleman Jack nearly swallowed a leg of capon whole."
"One can hardly blame him! You breezed in with the two of us in tow and told him you were keeping us as pets—like his current light-o'-love's infernal pugs."
Beau tugged at one of Molly's yellow curls. "At least you didn't keep poor Jack awake by yapping all night long. And I kept the both of you in my chamber, so you didn't sleep at the foot of his bed. Remember how he loathed those curs? He might have wed that empty-headed Miranda if it hadn't been for those dogs."
"No." There was wistfulness in Molly's voice. "I think even then he was waiting for someone else."
Beau whirled around, swooping up the ribbon she used to bind her hair. But instead of catching back the flame-hued tresses she merely fingered the wisp of satin. "Moll—"
"No more, I promise. I didn't intend to—to plague you. I only wish Mr. Ramsey were here to stop this foolishness."
The Raider’s Daughter Page 35
