The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

Damn Tony. Damn Celestia. Damn himself.

  He wasn't a fit guardian for a little girl. Why the devil hadn't Celestia considered the child's future and made some other arrangement? No doubt his sister had been far too busy having jealous hysterics over her current lover to bother with such a trivial matter. Ian sighed. There was nothing to do about it now except muddle through somehow. Perhaps he could find some relative of the child's father to take her until Tony could get her into the academy. Or...

  Damn, he couldn't think about it anymore. He'd go to sleep. Things would look better in the morning... wouldn't they?

  He started to leave, then stopped, frowning as he saw that the shirt Lucy was wearing had slipped askew, leaving one of the girl's narrow shoulders exposed. She gave an almost imperceptible shiver—all the more wrenching because Ian could tell she was attempting to stifle it. He gritted his teeth and pulled the coverlet over her bare skin.

  At the brush of his fingers, Lucy whimpered and jerked away from him, as though even in sleep she tried to keep a distance from anyone who would touch her.

  The gesture was all too painfully familiar. Ian closed himself against it.

  He stepped back, wanting to stalk from the room. Wanting to forget about how small her hand was, curled beside her rosy cheek, how fragile the slight stirring of her breath was as it riffled her golden curls. But he stood there for several long minutes, looking down into Lucy Dubbonet's innocent face, wondering which of them was more bewildered by this sudden familial bond—him or the little girl who lay frowning in sleepy defiance into the lace of his shirt.

  Chapter 2

  Ian jammed his clenched fists into his frock coat pockets in an effort to keep from throttling the child sashaying along before him, her pert nose thrust skyward in an attitude of total disdain.

  Disguised as Pendragon he had survived numerous encounters with pistol and sword. He had fought, outnumbered six to one, and had escaped dozens of traps by his wits alone. He had traded weapons for the coin of hard-eyed zealots, men who made it no secret that they would have liked to kill a speculating cur like him.

  But he would have faced all these enemies at once, armed with nothing but his bare hands, if it had meant that he wouldn't have to endure another minute in the company of Lucy Dubonnet, eight-year-old daughter of Satan, the scourge of the civilized world.

  They had come to town to order up a few necessities—a simple enough prospect, one would think. He was rich enough to pay whatever was necessary to rig her out, and he had felt so guilty about the way he'd received the girl that he was willing to give free rein to her childish extravagance.

  After all, Ian had reasoned, how difficult could it be to clothe one little girl?

  He shuddered, remembering all too well.

  In the space of three hours the child had managed to insult everyone from the burgess's daughter to the servant girl dipping out water from a barrel in the town square. Lucy had taken up huge chunks of the seamstress's time in choosing materials. And then she had tossed her curls and declared she wouldn't wear such provincial fashions for all the world.

  In the last shop they assaulted, Ian had told Lucy that he would not put up with any more of her nonsense and had ordered the shopkeeper to make the gown anyway. But Miss Mudden had snatched up the dress goods and said she'd rather stitch clothes for Crawley's fighting cocks, for they'd be far less likely to claw her eyes out if the garments failed to suit them.

  The look of triumph Lucy had cast at Ian had made him want to shake her, but she'd already managed to make enough of a spectacle in that particular shop. Even the rogue Pendragon knew when to retreat.

  But when they entered this last shop, Ian resolved, things would be different.

  He glanced at a newly painted sign that swung above his last hope—the only milliner's shop that had thus far escaped Hurricane Lucy. A spread fan bearing the likeness of a shepherdess was overwritten by swirling black letters: Mme. Emily d'Autrecourt, Fine Gowns and Millinery.

  Ian's jaw set, hard. This time he would get this whole ridiculous task over with once and for all, even if he had to borrow Mme. d'Autrecourt's needle and sew his niece's mouth shut in the process.

  "Lucy, tell me something." Ian said in the tone that had made countless English soldiers back down. "Do you intend to live long enough to wear any of these clothes you claim to want so badly?"

  The child sniffed in disdain. "I haven't wanted any of them!"

  "My point, exactly. I'd suggest you remedy that situation in this shop, or I shall order an entire wardrobe for you in the ugliest colors I can imagine and then I'll truss you up in it myself."

  The child glowered at him, hands on hips. "I won't wear black," she bellowed in a voice that would have done a sailor proud. "It's des-picable. I like blue."

  Ian banged his hand against the shop door, sending it flying.

  "Then choose some bloody blue cloth before I have to kill you!"

  The door crashed against the inside wall, and Ian could feel the room shake. The cries of the other customers echoed in his ears as the women wheeled to face him.

  A half dozen ladies flattened themselves against shelves full of silks and laces, their faces as stricken as if the first cannonball of the threatening revolution had just exploded in their midst.

  Ian felt hot blood rush to his cheeks as Lucy pushed past him in high dudgeon and stalked to a box of glittering buttons. The silence seemed to stretch out for eternity as the women gaped at him—the rakehell who was supposed to be far too lazily arrogant ever to lose his temper. Ian groped for something to say, but before he could diffuse the uncomfortable situation, it grew worse by half.

  "Ian!"

  He winced as he heard the amused cry of Flavia Varden, Tony's onetime mistress.

  Despite Flavia's thirty-some years, no hint of gray streaked the guinea-gold hair tucked beneath a most flattering bonnet, a buttercup yellow confection from the days before Tony had fallen under the spell of spritely Nora Mabley.

  Flavia hastened over, taking Ian's hands in a fashion that left no doubt that she would be happy to entertain him in a bed still warm from her current lover.

  "To what do we ladies owe the unexpected honor of this visit?" Flavia cooed. "Don't tell me. You've come for some colored gauze for the Roman fete you are hosting in two weeks."

  His face grew even hotter at the mention of the upcoming party—an affair so scandalous that even the most suspicious Tories would never suspect that an arms deal was being transacted in Blackheath's wine cellar at the same time.

  Ian stiffened, acutely aware of Lucy's unwavering gaze over the edge of the button box. She had fallen silent for the first time in the entire day.

  Why the devil couldn't the girl drive off Flavia the way she had everyone else, Ian thought in irritation. It was just like her to be so damned contrary.

  He cleared his throat. As the host of such a notorious entertainment, he could hardly act disturbed. "Ah, yes. The fete. I'm anticipating it with great relish."

  Flavia gave him a playful slap. "I don't doubt it, you naughty man! Dressing up like centurions and gladiators and carrying ladies off for your own personal org"—Flavia glanced around slyly from beneath fluttering lashes, a dimple dancing beside her painted lips—"er, entertainments."

  With a gasp an outraged mama swept her three daughters out of the shop. Another shy-looking woman skittered out in their wake.

  Flavia tittered. "Look at the silly fools scatter. You positively terrify them, Ian! The mere idea of such a wicked, wealthy, deliciously handsome rake stalking their precious virtue is far too enticing for them to bear. I vow they'll dream of being ravished by you before their heads strike their pillows tonight! But I'll be able to do far more than dream, won't I?" Flavia teetered forward on the toes of her slippers, displaying her bosom to best advantage. "Who knows what might happen when I fling myself at the feet of my Roman conqueror?"

  "Are you his mistress?"

  Ian stiffened at Lucy's acid-sweet inquiry.r />
  And he had actually wanted the child to speak? Now he was tempted to tear off his neckcloth and use it as a gag.

  "Lucy, what a question, for God's sake!" Ian snapped.

  But, as usual, the child ignored him. Eyes wide with innocence, Lucy sidled up to Flavia's yellow satin skirts. The woman looked down at the little girl, giving her a false smile. "Why, what a... precocious young lady! No, I'm not his mistress, dear. But one never knows what the future might bring. Any woman would be flattered by the attentions of such a handsome specimen as he is."

  "I don't think he's handsome. He has a crooked tooth on the bottom, and he scowls all the time." The child's gaze narrowed in the way Ian was coming to dread as she fixed Flavia with a cool stare. "My mama had lovers. Lots of them. She was much prettier than you."

  Ian could feel Flavia's hackles rise at the child's well-aimed blow, and he wondered how Lucy had survived to the ripe old age of eight.

  He moved in between them, feeling ill equipped to deal with Lucy's latest faux pas. But at that moment the scent of lavender teased his nostrils, a rustle of skirts sounding behind him.

  "Your mother must be beautiful, to have a little girl as lovely as you." The voice was soft, musical, shaded with the accent of England.

  Ian turned and looked straight into eyes of the most astonishing color he'd ever seen. Deep blue-violet flecked with gold, they were fringed with lashes as dark and rich as the hair that framed the pale cameo of the woman's face.

  Her complexion was flawless, rose kissing her sweetly arched cheekbones. A small straight nose was set over lips that were drawn in a perfect Cupid's bow. But it was not an insipid face, nor was it so pure and innocent as to be piously beautiful.

  There was just enough strength in her chin to challenge, while the slightest haunted aura about those kissable lips and melting violet eyes made a man's heart squeeze in his chest.

  For the first time in Ian's life no flirtatious jest or quick flattery formed with any kind of coherence in his mind.

  "Ian, this is Emily Rose d'Autrecourt, just arrived from London," Flavia trilled. "Mrs. d'Autrecourt, this is the most delectable rogue in all the colonies, Mr. Ian Blackheath of Blackheath Hall. I would advise you to take particular care of him, Mrs. d'Autrecourt, for he is the most generous of all men when it comes to his romantic conquests—buys them bonnets, petticoats, whatever their hearts desire. And he has made far more than his share of conquests, let me tell you. If you keep him satisfied, I can assure you your shop will thrive."

  Ian groped for words and at length was relieved to find some. "A lady so lovely could hardly help but keep me... satisfied."

  Currents ran thick and hot beneath his voice—currents no woman had ever misunderstood. He underscored them with a smile that should have melted the knees of a marble statue. But it seemed that Emily d'Autrecourt was made of sterner stuff. No answering heat came into those violet eyes, no blush washed over her cheekbones.

  Instead, she leveled him a look filled with quiet censure. "Mr. Blackheath, the only way you could possibly give me satisfaction would be to mind your tongue. I can't think your wife would approve of you behaving this way in front of the child."

  "Ian Blackheath with a wife?" Flavia dissolved into giggles. "I should like to see the woman who could entrap him!"

  Emily d'Autrecourt's eyes grew frigid, her cheeks tinged with pink. "Then at the very least he should have the decency not to expose his daughter to his affairs."

  Ian held up one hand, completely nonplussed. "Mrs. d'Autrecourt, I'm afraid you misunderstand."

  "After overhearing your conversation, Mr. Blackheath, I can assure you that I understand completely."

  "No, you don't. Lucy is not my daughter."

  "Papa! How can you say that?" Little hands caught at Ian's arm, and he whirled, thunderstruck to see Lucy gazing up at him with soulful eyes. She gave a sorrowful sniff.

  "Don't tell me this child is your sideslip!" Flavia gave an amused laugh. "I'm dying to know which mistress you fathered her on!"

  "I didn't! She isn't! She's my sister's child."

  "Now, Ian!" Flavia scolded with obvious delight. "In all the years we've been intimate friends, I've never heard you mention a sister!"

  "Blast it, Lucy! This isn't funny!" Ian roared, trying to extricate his arm from the child's grasp. "You tell these ladies at once that I am not your father!"

  "It's very naughty to lie, Papa!" Lucy said with grave innocence. "I try to be a good girl."

  "Dear me, Ian, don't tell me you're all choked up with morals!" Flavia put in. "With the number of women fighting to get into your bed, it's a wonder you haven't sired a dozen little bastards. In fact, even I wouldn't raise much of an objection to thickening with your babe. With you as its sire, it would have to be a pretty little monkey, just like this one."

  "That is just about enough!" Emily d'Autrecourt's voice was seared through with outrage as she swept over to Lucy, scooping her into the protective curve of one arm. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, Mistress Varden."

  "Leave? A wretched little milliner having the audacity to ask me to leave?"

  "I think I've made myself clear."

  Flavia bristled. "You can be sure I won't darken your door again! And I shall tell all of my acquaintances how shabbily I was treated!"

  "You must do as you think best." The words were quiet, but Ian could sense a certain tension beneath them. "However," Emily d'Autrecourt observed, "considering the fact that you and Mr. Blackheath have already emptied my shop of customers with your disgraceful conversation, I doubt you could do much greater damage."

  "Ladies, ladies," Ian interrupted, "I hardly think this is worth daggers drawn."

  But it was already too late. Flavia's face turned an unbecoming red as she confronted the seamstress. "Do you think because you are English, you are too good for us colonials? I've heard the gossip about you! A bond servant who sold herself for passage to America. Or are you a convict who should be rotting away in prison?"

  "A convict!" Lucy piped up, her face filled with avid curiosity. "Did you shoot somebody dead?"

  The seamstress ignored the child, and kept her gaze fixed on Flavia. "My affairs are none of your concern, Mistress Varden."

  "And what will you do if I decide to make them my concern?" Flavia demanded, her painted mouth pursed in threat. "Ian, if I were you, I would take my business elsewhere!" Flavia said, then flounced out of the shop.

  Ian raked his hand through his hair. How the hell had things gotten so far out of control? In the space of ten minutes Lucy had not only managed to stir up gossip that she was his illegitimate daughter—a tale Ian was certain would be halfway around Williamsburg in another ten minutes—but had dragged this stubborn, self-righteous seamstress into the mess as well.

  "Curse it to hell," Ian muttered. "Maybe I can fix things with Flavia at the fete." But before he could make his generous offer to the woman before him, Emily d'Autrecourt rounded on him, trembling with rage.

  "Of all the despicable behavior!" she said. "What kind of a man are you, allowing that woman to say such things to your own child?"

  A tear trembled on Lucy's lashes, and trickled down her cheeks with artistic perfection. "My papa doesn't want me! He wouldn't even take my trunks off of the coach that brought me to his house." Her voice quavered. "I don't even have a single dress, and he's been yelling at me all m-morning!"

  "For pity's sake, Lucy, haven't you done enough damage?"

  "It's not my fault he s-sent away my trunks! But he's mad at me, and he's going to dress me up in ugly clothes to p-punish me!"

  Ian gritted his teeth, remembering the spectacle he'd made when they'd entered the shop. The child had just delivered a masterful sword stroke.

  As if to hide her look of triumph, Lucy buried her face in her hands, but Ian could see her peeking out from between her fingers so she could gauge Emily d'Autrecourt's reaction. Lucy could not have been disappointed with what she saw.

  Those eyes
that had stunned him with their beauty now glared up at him as if he were Attila the Hun just returned from pillaging Europe.

  "It is true that her trunks were misplaced," Ian said, attempting to explain. "And I did tell her... Bloody hell, we'd been through every shop in Williamsburg! Her behavior was abominable!"

  "Her behavior?"

  "All I wanted to do was to buy her some infernal clothes! I can hardly ship her off somewhere with only the dress on her back!"

  "You see how hateful he is?" Lucy wailed. "I want my mama! I want my mama!"

  A flicker of some stark emotion he couldn't name darkened Emily d'Autrecourt's eyes. Her voice was unsteady as she drew the little girl into her arms. "We shall find her, sweeting. I promise you."

  "That's going to be a damn sight difficult," Ian snapped, his temper firing hot. "She's dead."

  "My mama's shot dead! All dead and cold and buried in the ground!"

  Emily d'Autrecourt looked at him as if she expected to find a smoking pistol in his hand.

  "I didn't shoot her, for God's sake! It was one of her lovers who—Hellfire and damnation!" Ian banged his fist into a shelf, sending spools of thread scattering. "Just make her some blasted clothes! I don't care how much they cost. I don't care what bloody color they are! Just rig her out, so I can get the blazes back to Blackheath Hall!"

  "There is no reason to bellow at an innocent child."

  "Innocent!" For the first time since last night, Ian could sympathize with the vicar who had brought Lucy to the plantation. By God, no wonder the man had fled as if the devil's daughter were nipping at his heels.

  She had been.

  He looked down at Lucy, who was snuggled beneath the swell of Emily d'Autrecourt's breasts. With uncanny stealth, the child stuck out her tongue at him.

  She was anticipating an explosion, was glorying in his fury. He could see it. But he'd be damned if he'd give her any further satisfaction at his expense.

  He gritted his teeth, his voice like unsheathed steel. "Lucy, you have one hour," he said. "If you are not finished by the time I return, I shall haul you out of here and you can wear the gown you have on until hell freezes over!" His eyes flashed to Emily d'Autrecourt's. "I have only one bit of advice for you, madam. I wouldn't trust her with any sharp objects if I were you." With that he stormed out the door.