The Demon Count's Daughter

by Anne Stuart

  "You mean you're tired of me moping around all the time?" I said, and Mama smiled her charm­ing smile.

  "That, too, darling. A walk will do you good before lunch."

  As I strolled aimlessly across the lawns I thought back to that curiously naughty expression on my mother's pretty face. She had never been terribly adept in the art of prevarication, and briefly I wondered what was going on in her active mind. Before I had time to work it out, however, I came to my favorite old oak tree, my ancient refuge from a hoard of brothers, all eager to tease me about my height or pull my long, black hair.

  Tilting back my head, I looked up in the leafy branches and immediately espied a small figure perched halfway up.

  "Hallooo," I said in a soft, friendly voice so as not to frighten him. "What are you doing in my tree?"

  "Is this your tree?" A young voice floated down, and I could hear the traces of tears in it. "I'll come down."

  "Oh, no, don't bother," I waved him back. "Do you mind if I come up?"

  A disbelieving laugh floated down. "Ladies can't climb trees," he scoffed.

  "This one can," I replied, plopping down on the grass and stripping off my shoes and stockings. I rolled up my sleeves, tucked my voluminous skirts into my waistband, exposing an indecent amount of calf and ankle and snowy white pantalets, and began the climb.

  By the time I reached the boy I was more than slightly out of breath, but game as ever. For the first time since I had left Venice I felt a small trace of happiness. And then I looked at the boy, and my triumph faded.

  "My, that was splendid," he said with great enthusiasm, his silver-blue eyes meeting mine and his young mouth curving into a grin. "I didn't think anyone your age could do that."

  Quickly I put a rein on my emotions. "Oh, I'm not so very old," I said casually. "And I bet both my mother and father could climb up here even faster than I did."

  "I like your mother," he confided. "I don't have one anymore, and I didn't like her very much when I did. But yours seems just the sort of mother one should have."

  "And what do you think of my father?"

  "He's a little frightening at first, but I think he doesn't really mean it. He seems like a pretty good father, too, but I like mine better."

  "You still have a father then?" I questioned art­lessly, holding my breath for his answer.

  The shadow came down over his plain, earnest young face. "Yes, I do. And he's the best man in the world, and it's not his fault that he can't be with me right now."

  "I'm sure it's not," I soothed him.

  "Sooner or later he'll come for me, and we can go back to Penstow. That's our house in Corn­wall. It's by the sea, and it's very beautiful and very old. It's made of stone, and the roof leaks a little, but we have a barn with cows and baby kittens, and houses for the men who work there, and a beach to swim from."

  "You're very homesick, aren't you?" I questioned gently.

  He nodded his bright gold curls, and I wanted to press his little head against me. Instead I gripped the thick branch tightly and swung my legs in an aimless fashion.

  "It's all right with Uncle Simon and Aunt Sophie," he continued stoutly. "They live in Som­erset, too, you know. But it's not the same as having your very own father, is it?"

  "No, it's not the same," I agreed quietly. "Listen, Jamie . . . your name is Jamie, isn't it?" He nodded; and I felt a queer little feeling rush through me. Not that I had needed that last confirmation; the eyes had been proof enough. "There's nothing we can do about your father. He's off in Venice, and we can't make him come and get you any sooner than he wants to. But why don't you and I just spend the day out here, away from the house and all those people. Paolo's a very good sort of fel­low, but he hasn't seen his brothers in a long time, and they get awfully rowdy. I know of an excellent fishing hole . . . you do like to fish, don't you?"

  "Rather," he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "I used to go fishing with my father, after my mother left. But ladies don't fish."

  "And ladies don't climb trees, or go barefoot," I mimicked. "I don't know where you've gotten your ideas about ladies, Jamie, me lad, but this lady does all those things and more. Are you game?"

  A big grin split his face. "I bet I catch more fish than you."

  "You're on." I paused. "By the way," I said deliberately, words that I never thought I'd say. "My name is Lucy."

  It was a lovely day. I cajoled some simple fishing tackle out of Muggs, one of our tenant farmers, and very tactfully allowed Jamie to catch two more fish than I did. We threw them all back but had great fun wading in the brook, splashing each other and shrieking with inordinate merri­ment. I showed him my secret cave and the ancient raven's nest that had long since been deserted. We wandered through my favorite blackberry patch and ate so much we felt sick. My hair came un­pinned as always and tangled down my back, my arms were scratched from the blackberry bushes, and my dress was ripped in a dozen places.

  Jamie looked a trifle better, but then, he was dressed for an excursion in the woods. Even so, it was an odd pair of ragamuffins that made their way across the lawn in the late afternoon sunset, and I wondered a trifle guiltily whether anyone had gotten the wind up after our long disappear­ance. We had just reached the steps when Maddelena appeared, jabbering noisily in Italian and throwing up her hands in excitement.

  "You'd better go with her," I advised Jamie, who looked uneasy at the sight of Maddelena's witchlike appearance. "She wants to clean you up." I gave him an encouraging little nudge, and he followed her dutifully enough. The sight of his small, compact little body and the soft nape of his neck beneath the gold curls made me want to snatch him back from my old nurse and hug him fiercely. I controlled the impulse, but just barely.

  "You're wanted on the terrace, Miss Lucy," Maggie popped out of the door, bustling with excitement. "Best hurry up and change."

  "If I'm wanted they'll have to take me as I am," I said calmly, wiggling my toes in the long grass. "Can you have someone go down to the giant oak tree and get my shoes, Maggie? I'm afraid I left them there."

  "Certainly, Miss Lucy. And you owe me ten pounds." She whisked herself back into the house, and I stared after her in perplexity. Mentally shrugging, I wandered around to the terrace, tak­ing my time about it. I could see my parents' backs, my mother's with her small waist, my father tall and lean and elegant still. And then, just as they turned and saw me, I remembered what Maggie had said. And with a horrid sinking feel­ing I looked across the terrace and my eyes met the silver-blue gaze of Jamie's father.

  "Ah, there she is at last," my father said silkily. "One thing I've always admired about my only daughter is her elegance in matters of dress. Tell me, my dear, are you always dressed with such a nicety, or are these your company clothes?"

  And the one thing I've always hated about my father is his nasty, sarcastic tongue.

  "Luc," my mother reproved him softly. "Don't be wicked." She turned to me, and the mischie­vous look was out in full force. "Luciana, darling, Jamie's father has come to fetch him. Did you find him in the woods?"

  "Yes." My voice came out in a strangled croak, and I could hear my father's damnable laugh.

  "Come, Carlotta." He held out an elegant arm, and my mother took it, giving him her usual ador­ing smile, a smile he returned, before raising a satanic eyebrow at his erring daughter. "We will leave these two alone to make their own mistakes. Don't be stubborn, child," he warned, and the two of them glided into the house before I could open my mouth to protest.

  As they went I heard my mother's soft, clear voice say to Luc, . . . "I think we should go back to Edentide, my love. The Austrians will be gone soon, and I have a longing for the old place. It still seems to work its magic on people." She sighed happily.

  "Whatever you say, little one. Though I think we make our own magic. . . ."

  Evan stared at me for a long moment. "You look very fierce."

  "Do I?"

  "You shouldn't blame me, you know."

  "I d
on't blame you for anything. Except for not telling me the truth," I accused him bitterly.

  "Lucy, when you willfully involved yourself in the dangerous game of spying, you gave up any right to, or acquaintance with, honesty. It's not a truthful profession, and you should have damned well known it."

  "I know it now." If this sounded sulky I couldn't help it.

  He moved closer with that pantherish grace I had tried so hard to forget, and the night on Durano came rushing back to my senses with stunning force. "Do you realize," he said softly, "how silly you're being? With that dignified man­ner and your appearance? Your dress is torn, your bare feet are muddy, you've got freckles across your nose, and blackberry stains on your mouth. I wonder . . ."

  Before I could guess his intention he had pulled me into his arms and his mouth was on mine, draining any attempt at resistance I might have shown. He raised his head and looked down at me with teasing laughter in his sunlit eyes. "You do taste of blackberries." And then he kissed me again.

  "Father!" A shrill voice sounded from inside the house, and thankfully I felt myself put to one side as a small dynamo came hurtling through the French doors and into Evan's arms. As I watched father and son greet each other an un­comfortable knot formed in my throat, so that I had to swallow a few times and blink back tears.

  "Have you met Lucy?" Jamie demanded when the initial welcome was past. "I've just met her, but she's my dearest friend; I want her to come to Penstow and visit sometime. Are we going to Penstow, Father? How long can you stay this time? Isn't Lucy pretty? Do I have to go back to Uncle Simon's? Couldn't you possibly stay a bit longer this time?" The small face was wistful.

  Evan laughed, his eyes lighting up his dark, scarred face and making him look almost carefree. "Yes, I've met Lucy. Yes, she's very pretty. Yes, we're going to Penstow, yes, I'm staying a long, long time. And no, you don't have to go back to Uncle Simon's."

  "I don't?" he shrieked, his face suffused with joy. "Not ever? Are you going to stay with me forever and ever?"

  He smiled. "Forever and ever. So, for that mat­ter, is Lucy."

  "What?" It was my turn to shriek in disbelief, only to have Jamie's strong, little arms crush the general area of my knees. "I most certainly am not!" I was torn between tears and laughter. "You don't want me at all. It was I who seduced you, and now you feel you have to be a gentleman."

  "Don't be absurd. I've never behaved like a gentleman toward you, and I'm certainly not about to start."

  "But you don't love me!" I wailed.

  "You foolish woman, I loved you from the mo­ment you fell at my feet in the Merceria. Or maybe it was when you went swimming in those tiny scraps of clothing in the broad daylight. It was definitely by the time you tossed the tea tray on General Eisenhopf's mistress."

  "That was General Eisenhopf's mistress?" I questioned, momentarily diverted. "How nice."

  "They didn't think so," he grinned. "Are you coming with us?"

  "No."

  "Lucy"—and his tone of voice was low and dangerous—"I am too old for all these romantic misunderstandings. If you are too stubborn I'm sure I can persuade your father to help me club you on the head and carry you off to Cornwall. You are alarmingly easy to kidnap."

  "You wouldn't!"

  "I would, and he would."

  I had no doubt of it. Much as the idea appealed to me, it might have its share of discomfort. I looked down at the child clinging to me like a limpet and met those trusting, silver-blue eyes, so like his father's. He smiled up at me and I smiled back.

  "Father," Jamie said confidently, detaching his crushing grip, "she'll come. But you have to be nicer to her if you want her to be my new mother. You practice," he ordered his formidable father, "and I'll say good-bye to Paolo."

  He disappeared into the house, past the amused and curious figures of my eavesdropping parents, and Evan turned back to me with a dangerously tender expression on his tired, scarred, handsome face. "Very wise, is my young son." And proceeded to obey Jamie's instructions. And not much prac­tice was needed at all.