The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  A moment later Tess felt a cold circular shape dig into her palm. She looked down, frowning at the gold guinea she saw there.

  "That's only the first, if you help me. There'll be many more — and all you have to do is carry my messages."

  Tess's head was spinning. The fool didn't know it, but he'd come to the right quarter for communicating with the Fox, sure enough! If the whole situation weren't so ghastly, she might almost have laughed.

  But perhaps two could play at this game of spying, Tess realized, her gray-green eyes glittering. "How much ye pay then?" she demanded warily. "If I make up my mind t' help ye, that is. Which I ain't sayin' as I will or I won't do."

  Ravenhurst smiled mockingly. The money had done it, of course. It always did. "A great deal — one hundred pounds, say. Provided you perform your services satisfactorily."

  Tess couldn't conceal a gasp of surprise. Such a sum would be a veritable fortune for the country wench he took her to be!

  "And a pardon if you choose to leave the free traders, as you call them. Something I'd strongly advise," Ravenhurst added grimly, "for you've little future before you otherwise. If another man had caught you tonight ..."

  He didn't need to finish. Tess had been thinking the same thing herself.

  "Another man might not have been content with touching you like this," Dane said hoarsely, his eyes lit with cobalt fires. His fingers found her nipple and he pulled her closer into the hard heat of his body. "Or like this," he growled, his hand slipping between them to knead her stomach. He reached lower, cradling the warm mound of her womanhood. "Aye, another man might not have stopped at all, for this wanton response of yours inflames a man beyond imagining. Something you must be well aware of," he added roughly.

  Without warning his head dipped and he took her shocked mouth in a hard, scorching kiss. At the same moment his fingers tightened on the sensitive delta that her breeches made so accessible to him.

  What was it about the wench that set his blood aflame? Ravenhurst wondered. He'd had women aplenty in London, but none had made his groin ache the way this one did! He could almost see how she would look with her pale thighs open to him. Yes, she would twist and fight like a little tigress.

  And then she'd moan for him to fill her.

  Just the way he'd have Tess Leighton moaning soon enough, he vowed grimly.

  The woman in his arms struggled, cursing, certain he must recognize her any minute. Finally one straining hand broke free and flew to his face, clawing wildly as her sharp nails raked his cheek.

  "You bloody little hellcat!" A muscle flashed at the hard line of Ravenhurst's jaw as he caught Tess's arm and forced her elbow behind her. Relentlessly he dragged her head back, kissing her with savage, punishing force until she stopped fighting and went limp in his arms.

  Something about the ragged little sob that escaped from her swollen lips jerked Dane back from the dark grip of passion. He blinked, shocked to feel his heart pounding. God, how he wanted her! Her mouth was sweet, warm with honey that he couldn't begin to get enough of.

  Suddenly all he could think of was her naked body, pale and frenzied as he took her right there in the darkness of the passage.

  With a curse Ravenhurst drew back, shaking his head sharply. What in God's name was he doing? She was a common trollop and a traitor at that! Why did her body inflame him so?

  "Lemme go," the woman in his arms whispered brokenly. " 'Afore someone sees me wi' ye. Not sayin' as I will or I won't help ye. But I'll think on it."

  There it was again. That note of blind, unreasoning panic. But there was something else about that voice, Dane thought, frowning.

  Then the elusive thread of thought was lost, for all he could hear was the blood surging hot and heavy through his veins. All he could think of was the heated silk of her skin.

  "Think all you want, but don't take too long," he growled. "I'll be at the Angel until my house opposite is readied. Ask for Viscount Ravenhurst."

  Tess's heart lurched in her chest. Dear God, not at the Angel! Never there! It would be more than she could bear.

  She swayed and would have fallen had his hands not circled her waist. In the process he brushed her rib, still throbbing from her fall upon the marsh. She stiffened, gasping with pain.

  Instantly Ravenhurst's hands froze. "You're hurt? Why didn't you tell me, you little fool? Best be on your way then," he ordered grimly. "Otherwise, you'll be of no use to either of us. Have you far to go?"

  "Not so far," Tess said quickly, fighting the chaos of her thoughts, unable to believe even now that this was Dane, her lover, come back after five long and barren years.

  Come back to mock and torment her.

  Come back to shatter her hard-won confidence and endanger the tenuous security of her new life.

  Suddenly Tess's throat constricted, wedged with anger and bitterness.

  Grimly she cursed herself for her weakness, for feeling anything at all for this man. It must be the shock of seeing him again, she told herself. Nothing more.

  But even now she could feel the treacherous heat of desire. Haunting memories, dark and sweet, swept over her, along with the tortured dreams that always followed in their wake.

  And in that moment Tess knew she hated this man.

  Even more than she had once loved him.

  "How do I contact you?"

  Tess stiffened, called back to the present by that flat, impersonal question. "Ye don't. I can allers find ye. When — an' if — it's necessary." She grimaced, cursing the unsteadiness of her voice.

  Suddenly a gust of wind rattled up the passage, sending little pebbles skittering across the cobblestones and flying into her face.

  "Lemme go now," she ordered coldly, awakened at last from the dark spell of her memories. "Moon's near gone, an' I'm fair dead on my feet."

  But her frowning captor did not move.

  Furiously, she balled her hands into fists and drove them against his chest. "If I'm seen wi' ye, we're both lost!" she raged.

  She had to get away! Her ribs were burning and she could barely stay upright.

  With a raw, smothered curse Ravenhurst released her and took a quick, angry step backward. What in bloody hell was wrong with him, anyway?

  Immediately the soot-faced urchin shot toward the haven of the street.

  Only to discover a pair of Hawkins's dragoons posted at the next corner.

  Chapter Two

  A shot rang out, whining angrily past Tess's ear.

  From the distance came an answering shout.

  Desperately she turned and fled back into the narrow passage, where hard fingers dragged her into the darkness. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could barely hear his next words.

  "Leave this to me," Ravenhurst hissed.

  Suddenly the night exploded into noise and curses.

  "Come out, ye bloody vermin!" Amos Hawkins bellowed angrily. "I've got ye now, by God! Yer bleeding carcass ain't worth the dirt ye're standing in. So move yer arse, afore I get tired of waiting and send a few balls in just to hurry ye out."

  Tess felt the hard hands release her shoulders. She watched Dane move toward the mouth of the passage, where the moon cast dancing shadows over a tense half-circle of excisemen and dragoons.

  "You're out late tonight, gentlemen." Ravenhurst's tanned face was expressionless as he stepped from the darkness. His eyes narrowed on the heavy figure who sat the center horse. "Inspector Hawkins, I take it. Busy hunting foxes, Inspector?" he asked mockingly.

  The squat Revenue officer's hands clenched convulsively upon the reins. The godrotting Fox had made a fool of him again! And before this damned arrogant Londoner! "My men told me they'd stopped ye down near the quay, Ravenhurst. I expect that was yer horse we found tethered over Land Gate way." Hawkins's small eyes narrowed. "So what're ye doing over here?"

  "Merely enjoying the night air, Inspector. That is still permitted in England, I trust," the viscount drawled.

  "Walk where ye like — Holborn or H
ades — just so long as ye keep out of my way!" Hawkins snarled. "For I'll have my fox and the devil take anyone who tries to stop me. Right now the bastard's close enough I can smell him!" He hesitated slightly. "See anything odd while ye was out here, Ravenhurst?"

  "I?" The single vowel resonated with mocking contempt.

  Hawkins bit back a curse. "No matter. I'll have the bastard by morning. Aye, and he'll be glad to face the gallows after I'm done with him!" The inspector laughed once, a cold, flat sound. His colorless eyes flickered over the large man before him. "Now, get out of my way, Ravenhurst! This is my turf. It would be a terrible shame for a naval hero like yerself to meet with an accident on a dark night, now wouldn't it?"

  Ravenhurst did not move so much as a muscle. The silence stretched out between them, the air fairly snapping with tension. Behind Hawkins a skittish horse began to dance. Somewhere in the half-circle a dragoon cleared his throat nervously.

  Stony-faced, the viscount let the silence trail on until it became a deadly insult. When he finally spoke, there was an edge of menace to his voice. "I like nothing more than a good scuffle, Hawkins. I'd advise you to remember that. Remember also that I find the night air bracing, which is why I take a walk every evening. You would make a grave mistake if you tried to deprive me of that pleasure."

  "If that's yer idea of pleasure, then ye're welcome to it!" Hawkins snarled. "Now, get out of my way, for I'm on the King's business!"

  After a moment, Ravenhurst took a leisurely step backward, watching in silence as the excise officers swept up the High Street and disappeared around a corner.

  This was precisely what Tess had been waiting for. As soon as she heard the horses plunge into motion, she fell to her knees. Her nervous fingers swept the wall, seeking an uneven brick just above the gutter. She felt a small notch, yanked out the brick, and hooked her fingers through a metal ring hidden beneath.

  Now came the struggle to lift the hidden trap door.

  Long heartbeats later, darkness yawned before her as she stood above the entrance to a secret tunnel which rose to her room at the Angel. It was a tunnel only she and three other people in the world knew existed.

  Unfortunately, there would be no time to brush away her footprints or scatter dirt about the entrance. She was only glad the moon was thin and her pursuer had no lantern.

  Her heart pounding, Tess stumbled down into the stagnant darkness, pulling the door closed behind her. Grimacing with pain, she tried to muffle the bang of the heavy metal plate as it dropped into place.

  For breathless seconds she stood unmoving in the dank silence. Above her came a muffled curse, followed by the sharp stamp of feet, which halted directly overhead.

  With a little ingenuity he might find the secret notch, she thought wildly. Then he would remove the brick and discover the door. If he did, all would be lost!

  A boot scraped overhead. Hard fingers brushed the door.

  Lungs straining, Tess waited mutely, afraid to breathe, praying that Ravenhurst wouldn't discover the false cobblestones mortared to a frame of iron and oak.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity of waiting, the steps swept off toward the mouth of the passage. Then and only then did she release the stale air blocked in her aching throat.

  Too close! And she was getting far too cocky. The next time, she might not be so lucky.

  As if this night, by any stretch of the imagination, could be called lucky.

  Trailing her fingers along the damp earthen walls, Tess stumbled upward toward the faint light far above, where warmth and safety beckoned.

  * * * * *

  At the top of Mermaid Street Amos Hawkins savagely reined in his mount. Long and hard he cursed, blind with rage.

  "Where'd the devil go?" he demanded, reaching down to cuff a nervous exciseman standing nearby. "Well, Boggs?"

  "We searched the docks, but he weren't there, sir," the man added, a moment too late. For his lapse he received another blow.

  Hawkins's fingers twisted convulsively in the reins. "Very well, then." His small eyes narrowed, flat and entirely colorless. "I see we'll have to try this another way."

  * * * * *

  Ravenhurst's shoulders were stiff with cold when he reined in Pharaoh before the Angel's half-timbered walls near the top of Mermaid Street. He ignored the hard-eyed gaze of a pair of Amos Hawkins's preventive officers posted across the street.

  The ancient building was just as he remembered it from five years before, hung with creepers and flowering roses, its gleaming latticed windows bright and inviting. A few errant raindrops splashed onto the cobblestones as Dane passed under a narrow overhang and made his way to the stables in the rear.

  Some instinct had made him ride past the old inn an hour earlier and nudge Pharaoh along the dark, rain-slick streets. Surveying enemy terrain? he asked himself. Or was it simply reliving old memories?

  "Hellish night, ain't it?" A diminutive figure scuttled out of the shadows. "Seekin' a room?"

  "If this is the Angel, I am." Ravenhurst smiled grimly. He must be careful to preserve the fiction that he was a stranger to this place. Until he met the Angel's mistress, at least. Surprise was always a tactical advantage.

  "So it is, an' ye'll find no better lodgin's in fifty miles." The slim lad of twelve or thirteen pushed his black hat off his brow until it sat jauntily askew. Slowly he ran a hand along the neck of Dane's horse. "Prime bit o' horseflesh ye got there, mister. I'll see he's rubbed down proper. Fair to soaked, he is." He slanted a look up at Ravenhurst. "Looks like ye both are," he added.

  Ravenhurst swung down from the saddle, tossed over the reins and strode into the stable. Once inside he took off his hat and shook the rain from the brim. "So we are at that. That poor beast of mine is sadly in need of a warm stall and an extra ration of oats. Aye, damned unpleasant out there on the marsh tonight."

  "Came Gibbett's Corner way, did ye? Past the windmill?"

  The viscount nodded, wondering at the sudden tension in the lad's voice.

  "An' yer saw nothin'? Nothin' unusual?" Keen curiosity lit the boy's dark eyes. Curiosity and something else.

  Regret? Dane wondered. "Ought I to have seen something? There can be few travelers foolish enough to be abroad on such a night, after all."

  The lad's shoulders slumped fractionally. "Aye," he muttered, almost to himself. "Reck'n even the Fox'd think twice afore goin' out tonight."

  Ravenhurst's eyes narrowed. "Who — or what — is the Fox?" he asked coolly.

  "Never heard o' the Fox? Why, everyone knows the Fox! Part man an' part devil, he is! Comes sweeping' out o' the marsh like a bat from Hell! All the dragoons in England can't catch him!"

  "Well, I passed no one — neither man nor devil — as I rode in," Dane said, lifting his sodden saddlebags from Pharaoh's back. "Must be this infernal weather that keeps everyone at home."

  The young man snorted. "Take more 'an a bit o' rain t' clear the streets hereabouts. No, sommat else keeps the fools at home shiverin' by their hearths."

  "And what might that be?"

  "Gentlemen, mebbe."

  "Gentlemen?" Dane's voice was carefully casual, but his mind was working rapidly. Any information could turn out to be valuable, he knew, no matter how insignificant it might seem. His months in Spain and France had taught him that.

  "Smugglers, as ye'd term 'em." The young hostler cast a careful look over his shoulder before bending closer. His voice dropped. "I cud tell ye things, mister. Aye, things to make yer hair stand on end. Why, jest last week a ridin' officer tried to shoot the Fox down. Over t' end o' Watchbell Street, it were. But he vanished like a ghost, neat as ye please! Aye, only part man, he is, an' the rest's pure devil. Can't catch him! No more 'n ye cud catch those strange lights wot play upon the marsh on moonless nights," the boy added darkly.

  "Does no one know the fellow's name?"

  "Naw," the hostler said smugly. "Never bin caught. Never will be, neither. Like I said, he's part man an' part —"

  Dan
e smiled thinly. "Yes, I know — part devil."

  "Don't believe me, do ye? Well, I've seen him wi' me own eyes! I cud tell ye what I seen! Give ye a guided tour, like. Only charge a guinea, I would, seein' as how ye're a stranger here an' all." His young face was expectant but oddly guileless.

  So the lad had a lucrative little business gulling credulous travelers, did he? There might be something to be gleaned from his wild stories at that. But it would never do to appear too interested.

  "Stirring tales of derring-do upon the marsh?" Ravenhurst's voice was hard with disbelief. "I can think of better uses for my guineas than that, thank you."

  Across the courtyard a door creaked open. Abruptly the boy cleared his throat and turned to lead Ravenhurst's horse back to a stall. "Aye, I'll take care o' everything, sir, just like ye asked," he called out loudly.

  "And be quick about it, Jem!" A big man garbed in sober black stood upon a narrow porch at the rear of the Angel, his face set in stern lines. He ran shrewd, assessing eyes over Dane. "If you'd care to step this way, sir." He stood back, waiting expressionlessly for the new arrival to proceed him inside.

  Realizing that he'd get no more from the Angel's talkative hostler that night, Ravenhurst climbed the steps at the rear of the inn. His stomach was rumbling as he stepped into a large, well-lit kitchen bustling with activity. Beside the door a large bird with emerald and scarlet plumage shrieked loudly, rocking back and forth on its wooden perch.

  "Cut line, Hobhouse!" the macaw cried, ruffling its long feathers. "Ye scurvy bilge rat!"

  "Quiet, Maximilian," the object of this diatribe ordered sternly. "We found him after a privateer's ship wrecked in Winchelsea cove," he explained. "I'm afraid we can do little about his execrable language. And I trust you'll forgive me for bringing you through the rear entrance, but you looked like a man who'd taken enough water this night."

  "So I had. You are Hobhouse, I take it?"