Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  His fingers caressed her neck and she raised her lashes, shocked to see his face was only an inch or two from hers. She could see the shape of his eyes, quite clearly; they were large and thickly lashed and glittered with pinpoints of light.

  “He hears me when I cry out, m’sieur.”

  “When you cry out?”

  “I … often have nightmares,” she whispered. “I dream I am back in the streets of Paris, in the Place de la Revolution where they took my father to be executed. I see the guillotine, standing so tall and thin against the sky, and I see the blood that drips from the blade and runs in rivers from under the stock to stain the feet of the citizens who have gathered to watch and cheer.”

  She saw no reason to confide any more of the horror that waited for her in the dark, and he held her gaze for what seemed like half an eternity before he straightened and started untangling the captive curl from around his hand. He seemed reluctant to let it go, but even as the last glossy strands slithered out of his fingers, he had retreated several steps into the shadows again, turning his face from the light.

  “Exactly how much do you estimate these rubies are worth?”

  The question, coming while her body was still taut and vibrating, produced answers that did not have the benefit of thought or subtlety. “Fifty thousand pounds, perhaps more.”

  “Fifty thousand?” He whistled softly under his breath. “For a few pieces of jewelry?”

  She sensed more than just doubt in his voice now and she let her hair drop back around her shoulders.

  “They are not just any jewels, m’sieur. They are known as the Dragon’s Blood rubies.”

  “For fifty thousand pounds, they should be Christ’s blood.”

  She ignored the blasphemy and pushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek. “They belonged to a very old and very noble family of France, one whose bloodlines were founded on the courage of those who conquered this damp and miserable island of yours. Like so many others who began to fear they could lose everything to the revolution, the Duc de Blois made arrangements to transfer much of his family’s wealth out of harm’s way. The Dragon’s Blood rubies, along with other irreplaceable heirlooms, were smuggled out of France and were to be kept safe in a bank vault until the duc or his heirs could escape and claim them.”

  “I gather the duc did not escape?”

  “He was betrayed to the Committee and executed for treason, as were his wife, his sons, his grandchildren, even a baby who could have been no more than a month old at the time. Robespierre,” she added tautly, “was very thorough.”

  “How did the rubies come to be in your fiancé’s possession?”

  “He was the one who arranged to take the jewels, the hoards of gold and silver—not just from the Duc de Blois, but from several others—and promised he would safeguard their wealth until they could escape with their families. Indeed, he safeguarded it in the vaults of his own bank until he received word they were imprisoned and executed, then it was a simple matter to claim the treasures as his own.”

  “How enterprising of him,” Tyrone mused.

  “Enterprising,” she agreed, “if it does not trouble your conscience that your profits are stained with blood.”

  Wary of her growing agitation, Tyrone raised his hands in a gesture meant to placate. “I am hardly in the position to offer any defense on your fiancé’s behalf, but—”

  “There is no defense,” she snapped. “These men and women trusted him to secure their future, to protect their family’s heritage. They paid him enormous sums to smuggle their wealth out of France before Robespierre and his greedy minions confiscated it in the name of liberté, égalité, and fraternité, and then he turned around and stole it out of their graves.”

  “And now you plan to steal it from him?”

  “If I can, yes.”

  “And the, ah, moral ambiguity does not trouble you at all?”

  "Que signifie-t-il ?”

  “Ambiguity? In this instance it means condemning someone for doing something you are about to do yourself. But never mind, you don’t have to answer that. I am more curious about something you said earlier tonight, that you can sell the rubies without suffering any loss of value?”

  “There are people in London loyal to France, to the monarchy, who would willingly pay to see the rubies safely back where they belong and to insure they do not fall into the hands of someone like Edgar Vincent again.”

  “Edgar Vincent? What the devil does he have to do with this?”

  She gave a brusque, disparaging sigh. “He is my fiancé. He is the man I am to marry on the fourteenth.”

  Safe in his shadows, Tyrone could not resist a wide grin. “The hell you say!”

  “Does this make a difference, m’sieur? Do you know him?”

  “We have crossed paths before—and swords. And no, it did not matter when I robbed him five months ago; it should not matter now.”

  “You have robbed him before?”

  Another low, throaty laugh came out of the darkness. “Indeed I have. And if memory serves, among the generous contributions donated by him and his female companion, there was a particularly fine trinket. A brooch”— his words slowed thoughtfully as he made the mental connection—“made of rubies and diamonds … and a pearl the size of a small fist.”

  “Please tell me,” she said on an indrawn breath. “Were the rubies coiled around the pearl like a serpent? A serpent with a golden body and diamonds for eyes?”

  “It was an unusually exquisite piece,” he agreed. “So much so the, ah, gentleman with whom I have a longstanding association refused point blank to deal with it. As I recall, he muttered something about my bringing constabulary hellfire down around his shoulders should he even attempt to sell it through his normal contacts.”

  Renée was almost afraid to ask. “Does that mean you still have it?”

  “If I do?”

  “If you do … it would increase the value of the suite immeasurably.”

  “This would not be another blatant appeal to my crude instinct for profit, would it?”

  “I doubt the instinct is a crude one, m’sieur. Practical, perhaps, yes? And to that I would gladly pay whatever price you ask for the brooch.”

  “Any price? A dangerous offer, mam’selle. An unscrupulous rogue might be tempted to take advantage.”

  She stared into the vicinity of his eyes and said softly, “I do not think you are as unscrupulous as you would wish me to believe.”

  “Why? Because you still have your clothes on? Or because I have not tried to kiss you yet?”

  The bluntness of the question startled her, but he did not allow her time to recover. In two swift strides he loomed before her again, his one hand raking deep into the silvery cloud of her hair to tilt her mouth up to his, his other slipping around her waist and drawing her hard against his body. The embrace was like the man himself, forthright and audacious, with no time wasted on flattery or finesse. He ignored the startled cry of protest that sounded in her throat, and with quick, efficient thrusts, won his way past the barrier of her lips and sent his tongue plunging hotly into her mouth, swirling to the deepest recesses, laying waste to any and all perceptions she may have had as to what a kiss entailed. It was more an invasion than a caress, and when it ended, when he withdrew the heat and the bold, lashing wetness, she continued to gape up at him, her mouth open, her lips feeling blushed and bruised, and, to her profound disbelief, craving more.

  “You would do well to heed a small piece of advice, mam’selle,” he said in a silky murmur. “I am neither a saint nor a savior, and any youthful inclinations I may have had toward monkhood are well and far behind me. Do not tempt me with more than you are prepared to give. Or lose.”

  He released her as suddenly as he had taken her captive. “How was Roth planning to spring his trap?”

  The rapid change in subject and in his demeanor left her stammering. “I—I do not know the d—details, m’sieur, he did not tell me. Thi
s is the truth, I swear it. But,” she added on a faintly guilty note, “he knows I am to meet you again in three days’ time.”

  He considered this a moment before asking. “You do realize what will happen to you if Roth finds out you are planning to double-cross him?”

  “I am aware of the colonel’s temper.”

  “His temper? Mam’selle, you have not yet seen his temper. You have seen his greed and deviousness, perhaps, but you have not had but a sampling of his predilection for cruelty and violence. If I were you, I would endeavor to avoid being caught alone with him again. You were lucky tonight, for he has a rather unsavory reputation where women are concerned … both the willing and the unwilling kind.”

  Renée’s lips were still wet and tingling from his assault as she twisted them into a wry smile. “More so than yours, m’sieur?”

  “I have never forced a woman to do anything she did not want to do,” he countered smoothly. “I may have had to rise to a challenge a time or two, but I have never forced my attentions where they were not wanted. And certainly not in any manner”—his fingers brushed gently over the angry red marks that striated her throat—“that might bruise something so … delicate.”

  Renée’s eyes widened. “You were there? You saw what he did?”

  “Let’s just say your Mr. Finn’s filibuster with the candlestick came half a moment before my own. And I would not have stopped at merely knocking the bastard out cold.”

  Renée thought back, but her memory of the darkened hallway was vague at best, blurred by pain and fear. If he had been concealed in the shadows, watching, she had not seen him, although the greater irony might be that Roth had been standing less than a few feet from his quarry and not known it.

  “If you saw what happened, m’sieur, then you must know I am not his willing associate.”

  “By the same token, I’m certain you can appreciate that I will still have to give your request some thought. Roth is a clever bastard. Stupid in some ways, but”—his gaze rested briefly on her lips—“very clever in others. We will meet again, as planned, in three days’ time, and I will give you my decision then.”

  “But Roth knows where we are to meet. Will he not send his soldiers there to try to catch you?”

  “I would be extremely surprised if he did not.”

  He dismissed the concern so casually, she was dumbfounded for the moment or two it took her to realize he had returned to the window. “You are leaving?”

  He swung open the pane and glanced over his shoulder. She had spun around and was standing in the full beam of moonlight, her face and body awash in its luminescence.

  “Mam’selle,” he warned her quietly, “if I were to stay any longer, it would not be for the purpose of talking.”

  She swayed slightly at the flagrant implication behind his words and clasped her hands tightly together at her waist. “What if something happens before the three days are out and I must get in touch with you?”

  He slung one leg over the sill and perched there a moment while he drew on his gloves.

  “If you need me,” he said slowly, “for any reason … go to the post in Coventry. Speak to the clerk who writes letters for people who cannot write themselves. Have him put up a notice on the public board addressed to Jeffrey Bartholemew, advising him to collect his carriage wheels at once or they will be sold to recompense his debt.”

  “Jeffrey … is that your name?”

  “No.”

  “May I know your name, m’sieur?” she asked in a whisper.

  “May I know yours?”

  She hesitated only fractionally. He knew the house, he knew who owned it; it would only take a question or two to discover the identity of the Française in residence.

  “It is d’Anton. Renée d’Anton.”

  “Then I bid you keep well, Renée d’Anton, until we meet again.”

  He gave a small salute and with a swirl of dark wool, he was over the ledge and gone. She hurried to the window and looked out over the sill, but managed only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the bat-winged shape after he reached the ground and vanished into the darkness below.

  She continued to search the shadows, trying to track his movements, but her efforts were in vain. There was nothing to see but the patterned dappling of moonlight where it sliced through the gently swaying boughs of the trees.

  The press of cool, damp air on the flimsy satin of her robe spurred her into shutting and latching the window behind him, but she leaned against it for several more minutes waiting for her heartbeat to slow, for her pulse to stop racing, for the warm and insistent throbbing in her lips to fade.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Robert Dudley was waiting with the horses and muttering under his breath when Tyrone appeared suddenly at his side.

  “High bloody time,” he protested, relinquishing Ares’ reins to Hart’s outstretched hand. “I wasn’t sure whether I should storm the bastions or simply give you up as lost.”

  “We had an interesting chat. It went on a good deal longer than I expected, is all.”

  “A chat? As in … conversation? Social discourse? An exchange of pleasantries? Or did you actually find out what you wanted to know?”

  Tyrone glanced up through the trees to the barely visible outline of Harwood’s steep roofs and slanted gables. “I found out … she is an exceptionally fetching creature without her clothes on.”

  Dudley’s eyes narrowed. “You couldn’t possibly have had time to—”

  “Haul your mind out of the gutter, Robbie. I only meant she had dispensed with the heavy cloak and hood. Mind you,” he cast a crooked grin over his shoulder as he steered Ares back through the woods toward the open road, “another five minutes or so and I might have been able to impress you with my prowess.”

  “You impress me every day,” Dudley said dryly, following close behind. “Dare I ask what you talked about?”

  “Her upcoming marriage to Edgar Vincent, among other things.”

  Dudley, who had been concentrating on the ground to steer his horse around a knot of roots, looked up so suddenly, the branch skimmed the top of his head and would have carried off his hat if he had not reached up in time to grab it. His horse, startled by the sudden struggle for balance, danced forward several steps before being reined to an abrupt halt.

  “Did you say Edgar Vincent?”

  “I did. Apparently he is the lucky groom our lovely little French minx plans to leave standing at the altar with nothing but his hat in his hand.”

  Dudley muttered, “Christ,” then swivelled around in his saddle and said, “Christ!” again as if it was just occurring to him who owned the Gloomy Retreat.

  “Exactly,” Tyrone murmured. “She claims to be Lord Paxton’s niece; she is engaged to Edgar Vincent; and she is apparently helping Colonel Bertrand Roth set a trap for us. Do you still wonder what kept me from sliding down the drainpipe sooner?”

  Dudley turned slowly back around, the leather in his saddle creaking as his weight settled again. “Naturally, she denied seeing the good colonel at the inn?”

  Hart shook his head. “As a matter of fact, she admitted the meeting outright. She also told me he had set the whole thing up, that he had sent her out on three previous evenings in the hope of luring us out of hiding.”

  “And … ?”

  “And … she seems to think it is a fine plan and still wants me to steal the rubies out from under Roth’s nose.”

  “She thinks … what?” Dudley strained forward, as if his ears had played him false. “She wants to double-cross Roth?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Surely you don’t believe her?”

  Hart frowned. He believed the ugly bruises Roth had left on her throat and he believed the loathing and fear he had seen in her eyes at the inn. Lord Paxton’s part in all this, Tyrone could readily understand, for the earl was a gambler, heavily in debt, and if he had indeed betrothed her to Edgar Vincent, he had either done so for a price or to settle an outstandin
g wager. Vincent, on the other hand, was a fishmonger, a commoner who had started out selling carp pies out of a London gutter. How he had become one of the wealthiest merchants in London was a mystery to some, but to those in the trade, his was a familiar name in the black market. Dealing with the disposable wealth of dead French aristocrats sounded loathsome enough and profitable enough for Vincent to have his hand well in it.

  All the money in the world could not buy a gutter rat what he wanted most, however, and that was respectability. Marriage to Paxton’s niece would give Vincent that, especially if there were some further considerations due upon the earl’s death. Paxton’s only son had died of a childhood fever and should a marriage between Vincent and Renée d’Anton produce a male heir, the boy would likely inherit the titles and estates.

  As for Roth, the man was arrogant and ambitious, determined to make a name for himself. He would use any means at hand to further his purpose … women, children, dogs if they could be trained to betray their masters. If he had some kind of hold over Renée d’ Anton, something devastating enough to make her a participant in his scheming, Tyrone would have to find out what it was before he even considered meeting her again.

  “You have that look on your face again,” Dudley remarked warily. “The one where we usually wind up neck deep in shit, skinning our arses on the steps of the Old Bailey.”

  “Your skin is safe. I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

  “You haven’t told her to fall on her own sword yet either, have you?”

  “I will admit,” Hart nodded thoughtfully, “to being curious enough to see where this might lead.”

  Robert Dudley sighed. “There, you see? I can feel the noose slipping around my neck already.”

  “For fifty thousand pounds, suffer the discomfort a little longer.”

  “Fifty thousand?” Dudley whistled softly under his breath. “And our cut?”

  “The full fifty thousand, naturally.” Tyrone nudged Ares forward again. “Kindly show a little faith in me, old friend. Have I ever let a woman interfere with business before?”