A Raven's Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  But what other choice did he have? She’d barely escaped with her life tonight. The danger to her here, from some unnamed French assassin, was surely greater than if she came with him. If their enemies had managed to discover where she lived, they might also have discovered the location of Castlereagh’s numerous safe houses. He couldn’t risk sending her to one of those, and it would be almost impossible for anyone to track them once they left the country.

  Keeping her with him would be dangerous, but the simple truth was he didn’t trust anyone else. She’d be safe with him. Despite his teasing and threats, he respected her too much to treat her like all the other women in his life—as a brief, shallow amusement. Her brothers, Richard and Nic, trusted him implicitly and he’d never risk losing their friendship by dishonoring her. They’d not only expect him to keep their precious little sister alive, but to return her in exactly the same state she left in. Unhurt. Untouched. Unkissed.

  The woman was a walking temptation, but he didn’t doubt his ability to resist her. He’d been doing precisely that for the last six years. But she didn’t make it easy, and proximity would only make it worse.

  The unexpected sight of her courtesan’s underwear had nearly sent him to his knees. A too-clever scholar had no right to wear silk and lace nothings. Underwear like that was a visual promise to sin—one Miss Heloise Hampden had absolutely no intention of keeping. It was damned false advertising.

  How was he going to concentrate now that he knew what she had on underneath her pure-as-the-driven-snow dress? It had been bad enough when he’d only had his imagination to deal with. Reality surpassed even his lascivious imaginings.

  Bloody hell.

  Raven pushed off the door and strode back toward the party. His lack of cravat and general dishabille would occasion no comment. A certain state of undress was expected of him by this time in the proceedings, although he doubted many of his guests would be sober enough to notice.

  At the head of the great staircase he glanced up. Some Ravenwood ancestor had commissioned a famous Italian to paint the ceiling. The riotous scenes complemented the evening’s entertainments perfectly; the writhing celestial debauchery of the assembled Olympian gods mirrored the acres of heaving bare flesh in the ballroom below.

  Raven felt a brief, childish stab of satisfaction. His grandfather, the starchy old bastard, would have another apoplexy if he could see the stately seat of the Dukes of Avondale filled with iniquity and sin. The disrespect, though petty, was still remarkably enjoyable.

  The old miser’s belated attempts to make amends after Raven’s kidnapping had been too little, too late. He’d shown where his priorities lay when he’d refused to pay the ransom. Raven hadn’t taken a penny of his grandfather’s money, nor the titles that were due to him after his father’s death. He’d told his grandfather to bequeath the marquisate to a distant relative.

  The only thing he had accepted was this house, though he hated the place. Not the building itself, but the accumulation of things it represented. It weighed him down with a sense of noble responsibility, when he wanted his life to be as simple and unencumbered as possible. But the remote coastal location had been perfect for wartime subterfuge and it bordered the Hampden’s estate, home of the best friends and only family he’d ever truly known. Little Miss Hellcat included.

  His practiced gaze picked out the dark figure of Hades abducting a protesting Persephone and he hissed in silent commiseration. Poor sod, driven to such desperate measures. Raven knew exactly how that felt. Heloise Hampden was everything he wanted, and everything he couldn’t have.

  He avoided the ballroom and entered his study, where he scrawled a hasty message to Richard and another to Castlereagh, enclosing Heloise’s encoded note, then sat back in his chair with a sigh. God, what a mess. He stared moodily across the room at the crest carved into the mantel and grimaced at the irony of his family motto. The Latin phrase came from Virgil’s Aeneid; “Sic itur ad astra.” Thus you shall go to the stars.

  What was that supposed to mean, anyway? The stars were as remote and untouchable as the girl currently cuffed to his bedpost. A man like him could never reach them.

  Raven frowned in sudden recollection. He’d had a signet ring with that crest on it, once. It had been his father’s. The bastards who’d kidnapped him had sent it as proof of life to his grandfather. He wondered where it was now.

  Raven rang for a servant and handed him the notes. “I want these delivered to Lord Castlereagh immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And have someone saddle my horse.”

  Chapter 9

  Heloise glared at the clock as it chimed two. Raven had been gone for over an hour. An initial burst of fevered activity had resulted in nothing more than a bruised wrist and an increasingly frayed temper. From what she could hear, the party was still going strong; carriages would arrive at dawn for the last straggling revelers. He’d better not have left her to rejoin the party—

  The door swung open and her head snapped up.

  Raven bent and retrieved her slipper, then held it out to her like a peace offering. She accepted it with as haughty a look as she could manage while handcuffed to his bed.

  “I’ll let you go if you promise you won’t try to escape.”

  Heloise nodded enthusiastically. She held still as he released her wrist, judging the distance to the door as he removed the gag. Worth a go. She leaped forward.

  He caught her around the waist with humiliating ease and lifted her off her feet while she kicked and thrashed. Her heel made contact with his shin and he growled, tightening his grip.

  “Stop it!”

  “No!”

  “Stop it or I’ll throw you on that bed and show you just how much stronger I am.”

  It was a good threat. Heloise stilled, breathing heavily. He loosened his grip slowly and lowered her to the floor.

  “That’s better. Now, are you going to be sensible?”

  She nodded meekly.

  “Good. Come on.” He caught her hand.

  “Don’t you need to pack?”

  He shook his head. “My ship’s still at anchor in the cove, always ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

  “How convenient,” she murmured sarcastically.

  She’d forgotten that he kept his own ship in the bay. During the war he’d regularly posed as a smuggler to slip unnoticed into France, and only a few months ago he’d rescued her brother Nic; his now-wife, Marianne; and the French aristocrat Louis-Charles de Bourbon, in a daring nighttime raid from Brittany.

  The only people they encountered in the hall were an amorous couple entwined in a doorway. The man ushered his giggling partner backward with an audible “Shhh!” and the door clicked closed. Heloise felt her face flame and glanced up to catch the slow, mocking curl of Raven’s mouth.

  Instead of using the main stairs, he led her to another service staircase and through an enormous, and deserted, reception room.

  Heloise gasped. Whereas the hallway depicted gods and goddesses in joyful abandon, this room depicted hell, all red, black, and orange. All four walls enclosed one huge battle scene—with rearing horses, and soldiers in billowing capes with slashing swords. Above, on the ceiling, a grotesque catlike animal with a yawning mouth depicted the entrance to the Underworld itself. Gruesome souls writhing in torment were wreathed in smoke and flames, surrounded by more battling gods and goddesses. The trompe l’oeil effect was so well executed that the real green marble pillars of the room were almost impossible to differentiate from those that had been merely painted on. The whole effect was uncomfortably disorienting.

  There was the Grim Reaper, with his sickle and hood. And Hades, thundering up from the Underworld in his chariot. The tale of Hades and Persephone had been one of her favorite Greek myths as a girl. Her younger self had thought it breathtakingly romantic; imagine having a man desire you so much that he’d defy the gods to have you.

  Heloise suppressed a snort. Ha! It was just anothe
r kidnapping. And there was nothing romantic about that. Raven wasn’t stealing her away because he loved her. He was only doing it out of duty and friendship.

  Raven shot her a teasing look over his shoulder as they crossed the marble floor. “I’ll be honest, Hellcat. I expected more histrionics.”

  “I haven’t seen where it would help,” she said bluntly. “If you’d like me to start screeching like a banshee, you have only to say.”

  They reached a side door without encountering another soul, not even a servant. Raven retrieved a dark leather satchel waiting on a hall chair, slung it over his shoulder, and drew Heloise out into the kitchen garden.

  The slap of the cool night air brought the reality of the situation home with a jolt. This wasn’t a joke or a nightmare. Raven really was planning to put her on his ship and sail away. He was completely mad.

  Clouds covered the moon, but he led her unerringly through the shadows, apparently unconcerned that whoever had shot at them earlier could still be loitering in the darkness. Heloise was about to point this out, but she found she needed all her breath to keep up with his brisk pace. She flinched at every snapped twig and looming bush but they navigated the gardens without incident and plunged into a bank of huge rhododendrons. When they emerged on the other side, the moon slid out from behind the clouds and Heloise stopped dead.

  They were standing at the top of a cliff. A gust of wind flattened her dress against her legs, bringing with it the bracing tang of seaweed and brine. Below them, in a rocky inlet, the dark outline of Raven’s ship bobbed on the tide.

  A set of rough steps had been cut into the side of the cliff. Raven let go of her wrist and took her hand and Heloise was glad of the reassuring strength of his fingers. Her legs seemed to be alarmingly shaky. He helped her down onto a wooden jetty attached to the rocks and she suppressed a shiver. The ship creaked and groaned like an invalid and the waves sucking at the rocks sounded like a monster smacking its lips in anticipation of a good meal.

  Raven hailed a shadowy figure on the deck with a shout. “We’re here. Prepare to weigh anchor.”

  Heloise’s feeling of doom persisted as her feet left the solidity of the dock and she ventured up the swaying gangplank; she glanced down at the dark, unfriendly waves and shuddered. Raven ushered her across the unsteady deck and down a set of steep wooden steps. The area below was extremely cramped. A number of small wooden cots had been set in rows on one side, presumably where the crew slept, and the air was warm and close.

  “They double as coffins if anyone dies at sea,” he said cheerfully, noting the direction of her gaze. “Not an inch of space in a place like this.” He led her to a narrow door and opened it with a flourish. “Only one cabin, in fact. Mine.”

  And with that, he shoved her inside.

  Chapter 10

  Heloise glared over her shoulder at him and straightened. So this was what a smuggler’s cabin looked like.

  She stifled a spurt of disappointment. It looked like an ordinary, rather cramped study. A chair and leather-topped desk competed for space with a large bed, apparently built into one wall. There was a set of shelves with odd, low brass railings running along the edges—presumably to prevent items from falling off—and a couple of wooden trunks. Small, glazed portholes provided little illumination.

  She gestured at the ceiling and summoned her most imperious tone. Raven might have bullied her onto his ship, but he was not going to order her about. “Don’t you have to be up there, captaining or something?”

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “Yes.”

  Raven opened a cupboard set into wall. She heard the chink of glasses and the splash of liquid, and he turned, holding two tumblers. “I’m going. But first, drink this.” He handed her a glass filled with liquid the color of a sunset.

  She eyed it with deep suspicion. “What’s that?”

  “Pink gin to combat seasickness. It’s just a precaution. Don’t want you ruining my nice clean cabin.” He glanced down at his feet. “This is an extremely expensive rug.”

  Heloise took a tentative sniff. Her eyes watered and she blinked rapidly. “Is the idea to get me so drunk I pass out?”

  “No. But it should stop you from feeling queasy. Even Admiral Nelson used to get sick at the start of every voyage. And he first went to sea when he was twelve.”

  “How reassuring.”

  He chinked the rim of his own glass against hers and downed the contents. “Bottoms up.”

  With a mental shrug Heloise did the same. Her throat caught fire. Tears sprang to her eyes. When she could catch her breath she croaked out, “Good Lord! That’s vile.”

  Raven grinned and took her empty glass. “Good girl. Now, as you rightly said, I have to ‘go captain.’ Is there anything else you require?”

  “Only your absence,” she managed.

  He backed out the door with a mocking flourish. “Your humble servant.”

  Heloise scowled. Ha. There was nothing humble or subservient about him.

  As soon as the key turned in the lock she made a thorough search of the cabin. One box was full of charts. The other was a foreign-looking carved chest that held clothes. The interior smelled like pencil shavings. The desk was unlocked but contained pens, paper, ink, and nothing remotely interesting. She hadn’t really expected to find anything. Raven wouldn’t be much of a spy if he left information all over the place for inquisitive people to find.

  Perhaps it was the motion of the ship, or the potency of the gin, but she was beginning to feel a little light-headed. Heloise flopped down onto the chair.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” they said. She grimaced. Her list of “things to do before I die” had included a wish for her mundane life to be more exciting. She’d always been jealous of the closeness the boys shared, that unbreakable bond of friendship, forged in the crucible of war. She’d wished for a chance to travel, too, but it had always been too dangerous; England had been at war with France for so long she’d never had a Paris season or a Grand Tour.

  She’d known, on a theoretical level at least, that her code-breaking was important to the war effort, but the comfort of her own home and the genteel luxury of Lord Castlereagh’s Whitehall offices had been so far removed from the shadowy world of covert operations inhabited by Raven and her brothers that she’d never truly imagined she could be in danger. Tonight that nebulous threat had become terrifyingly real.

  A wave of exhaustion rolled over her. The bed looked extremely inviting. She loosened the laces of her corset, her fingers oddly uncoordinated. That gin must have been extremely strong. She shouldn’t have had it on top of the champagne; her head was swimming. She kicked off her cream silk ballet slippers and regarded them dolefully. Ruined. Grass stains never came out.

  The boat was definitely moving now; the floor seemed very unreliable. She staggered a little as she crossed the cabin and sank gratefully onto the bed. A key grated in the lock; Raven was back.

  Heloise blinked at him owlishly. “Oh, itsh you again, ish it?”

  The words came out slurred. She frowned.

  Raven affected a scandalized expression. “You’re not drunk, are you, Miss Hampden?”

  She drew herself up in an insulted affront. “Of course not.” She tilted her head to one side and gave the matter grave consideration. “I don’t think I am.” Thinking was hard. “It’s possible I’m tipsy,” she conceded.

  She leaned back against the wall and gave him a slow smile. She was all warm and tingly. “That’s one thing I can cross off my list, then.”

  “Your list?”

  She glared at him. He was being particularly dense. “I told you about it. My list of things I want to do before I die.”

  “Ah. That list. Getting drunk was right next to finding an insatiable lover, I assume.”

  “Yup. You men all drink with alarming regularity. There must be something to recommend it. Now I see why. It’s quite pleasant. Although it does produce the oddest sensation of the flo
or moving about. That might just be because we’re on a ship, of course.”

  He smiled. “What else?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “What else, what?”

  “What else is on the list?”

  “Oh, all the things I was never allowed to do and wanted to.” Her eyelids drooped and she yawned. Raven sat on the edge of the bed. She didn’t have the energy to scold him. She listed sideways until her head hit the pillow. Ah. That was better. “I might just take a little nap.”

  “Not worried I’ll ravish you in your sleep?” he teased.

  She gave an unladylike snort. “Ha. You don’t want me. Never have.”

  He raised a brow and waited for her to explain.

  “In your defense, I do know you didn’t turn me down because of my scar. You rejected me a full six months before I got it.” She let out a long sigh. “It must have been some other flaw in my personality.”

  Raven shook his head, his expression unreadable, and Heloise closed her eyes, appalled with herself. Had she really just said that out loud? She needed to stop talking, right this instant.

  The mattress dipped as he shifted and she felt him smooth back her hair from her cheek. His breath sluiced across her forehead, then her cheek, as he bent down.

  The touch of his hand disappeared but she sensed he stayed close by. His presence should have been alarming, but instead she found herself oddly comforted.

  “Sleep now, Hellcat,” he whispered in her ear.

  And for possibly the first time in her life, Heloise Hampden did as she was told.

  —

  Raven shook his head as he gazed down at the woman in his bed. For someone so intelligent, she was sometimes unbelievably stupid. Thank God.

  He tucked the blankets around her and a fierce wave of lust shot through him. He liked the idea of surrounding her in sheets that smelled of him. She nestled further into the pillows, pink lips pouted in sleep.