The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

  Emily stood there, more shaken than she dared admit. The child still clung to her, her little shoulders quivering with what could only have been terror.

  How dare the man frighten the little girl that way! she thought furiously. But no one knew better than Emily what a man like Ian Blackheath was capable of—just how far he would go to get his own way.

  She had seen such men a hundred times in England—young men like the nobleman who had been her husband. And she had watched in horrified fascination as they sank deeper and deeper into debauchery, not caring who they dragged with them into ruin. They had had the same arrogant cast to their faces, the same appearance of wealth and invincible power as the man who had left Emily's shop moments before.

  But she sensed Ian Blackheath was even more dangerous—because of the raw sensuality that rippled off of him in thick, drugging waves.

  Those crystal-lake eyes ringed with darker blue beneath thick black lashes had speared awareness into the most secret places of Emily's body. His straight nose had enhanced the hard planes and angles of his cheekbones, the unyielding square of his jaw. But the hard, aristocratic features were softened by lips that were unexpectedly full and looked bone-meltingly soft.

  He was an even more potent package of an all too familiar poison. A man who would not hesitate to trample over anyone who dared to interfere with his pleasure, any more than Alexander d'Autrecourt's friends had.

  Anyone like a mere wife... or a child...

  A knife blade of pain embedded in Emily's heart twisted afresh. She closed her eyes, fighting back the memories.

  "Come, now, little one," she crooned to the child. "We shall teach your papa a lesson at once. He said he would not question the cost of outfitting you. So you may choose anything you want."

  "Are—are you certain it's all right?" the little girl asked, gazing up at her with tear-starred eyes. "I want to be a good girl. I don't want to make Papa angry."

  "Of course I'm sure. You heard it from his own lips, didn't you?"

  The child smiled. It would have been a beautiful smile, Emily was certain, if it had reached the little girl's eyes. "You are a nice lady. I wish that you could be my papa's mistress."

  Emily's cheeks heated, and she hurried to drag out the most exquisite merchandise her shop had to offer. As the hour flew by, Lucy delved with great relish into planning a wardrobe that could rival the queen's while Emily waged her own battle against the disturbing images the child's words had conjured up in her mind.

  Images of Ian Blackheath playing at bed games, his magnificent body reclining like that of some Caesar in ancient Rome.

  Ian Blackheath, his lips curled in that mocking devil's smile while the bevy of mistresses Flavia Varden had spoken of draped their gauze-covered bodies over his broad chest, hungry for his favors.

  Ian Blackheath. The most decadent, dissolute of men. A heart of ice masked by a face that could steal a woman's soul.

  Emily felt her heart flutter with apprehension. No! She brought herself up sharply. Ian Blackheath could not hurt her. She was older now, and far wiser than before. She could sense the danger when the shadow of a hawk sailed near her... a hawk in the guise of a man.

  She had far more dangerous things to worry about than him.

  Like the price she had paid for this new beginning. The forfeit she had agreed to in exchange for a chance to start her life anew. If anyone ever discovered...

  Flavia Varden's threats echoed in Emily's mind.

  "Oh, lady!" Lucy's gasp of delight shook Emily from her thoughts as the little girl darted to where a fashion baby was displayed. She scooped up the wooden figure that had been sent from England to exhibit the latest fashions, her fingers trailing with wonder over the tiny burnt-straw hat, the delicate embroidered underpetticoat with its riot of flowers.

  Outwardly it seemed no different from a hundred other dolls that ladies used to select the patterns for their gowns and that, once the newness of the fashions on the dolls had dimmed, were handed down to eager little girls at Christmas or on their birthdays. Yet this fashion doll was as different as nightshade from a child's fistful of violets—the secrets beneath its wooden breast as dangerous as poison. Just the sight of the doll in Lucy's hands shook Emily so fiercely that she snatched it away.

  Lucy's eyes widened in astonishment, then darkened, her mouth setting into an ominous pout. "I want that doll! Give her back to me!"

  "I'm sorry, Lucy. This doll is not for sale," Emily said as she crossed to the wooden counter and stepped behind it. "But I'd be happy to part with another. Perhaps the one in the emerald green dress you admired so much."

  "I want that doll!" she jabbed a finger at the figure Emily was tucking on the counter's lower shelf. "I don't have any doll at all and my mama is dead! I cry every night."

  Guilt gnawed inside Emily. The child truly did look distraught.

  "I'll make you another one even prettier, sweetheart. It will be ready by the time you come to get your new clothes."

  "I want the doll in the blue satin! Give her back to me! Now!"

  The door opened, and Emily turned to see Ian Blackheath framed in the doorway. There was the slightest hint of smugness about his lips as he surveyed the tangle of cloth and trim and the truculent expression on Lucy's face.

  "Having fun, are we?" he asked in dulcet tones.

  In a most disturbing turnabout, Lucy flung herself at his legs. "She is being abominable mean! She won't let me have the doll I want! I'd wear this dress forever and ever if I could only have that doll to love!"

  Emily winced inwardly, her heart giving an erratic lurch. "Please, Mr. Blackheath. I can explain—"

  "I've found that no one can explain anything when Lucy is about," Blackheath said, digging into his waistcoat pocket and withdrawing a leather purse. He flipped it open, withdrawing a handful of gold and silver coins. "Just tell me how much the thing costs, and I'll pay it. It will save us both a world of grief in the long run."

  "You don't understand." The heat of a guilty flush washed up Emily's neck and spilled onto her cheeks. "This doll is not for sale."

  He chuckled. Those arresting blue eyes flicked in a path to her lips. "It has been my experience that everything has its price, my sweet. And despite all the trouble Lucy has caused, the child is far from home. If the doll will bring her comfort—"

  "I cannot sell the doll. I'm sorry."

  Those ice-blue eyes sharpened, his heavy brows lowering in displeasure and a vague suspicion that made Emily's blood run cold. "Mrs. d’Autrecourt, don't be absurd. You are new in town, and have only recently opened for business. From what Flavia said, I gathered that you've had a somewhat difficult past. The amount I could pay you for the doll would certainly help. Think of it as a windfall."

  "I would prefer to earn my way honestly. And I can hardly expect ladies to order gowns from my shop without having seen the fashions on the dolls first. This particular style has stirred up a good deal of interest already." There was enough suspicion in Ian Blackheath's face to unnerve her. She groped for some way to appease him. "Perhaps if you would give me a few days, I could copy it."

  "God's blood, madam, an hour ago you were making me feel like the most despicable villain alive because I was not being sensitive enough to the child's needs to suit you. Now you are being unreasonable. I hardly have time to run back and forth to town. I have important matters to attend to. This gown is little different from any other. A bit of ecru chiffon here, a touch of taffeta rucheing there. Get a pen and a bit of paper and sketch it."

  "Mr. Blackheath, my time would be better spent explaining to you the definition of the word 'no.' Obviously it is beyond your comprehension." Emily looked down at the little girl, whose features were now filled with a most fearsome fury. No hint remained of the angelic innocent who had swept into the shop an hour ago.

  "Lucy, I promise that as soon as your clothes are stitched I shall bring the doll out to you. Since your papa is such a busy man, I do not want to inconvenience him wi
th another trip to town." There was a bite to the words. Ian Blackheath's mouth tightened.

  "He's not my papa!" the child shrilled, her voice breaking. "I don't have a papa. I don't have a mama. I don't have anybody!"

  With lightning swiftness, the child grasped the edge of the shelf nearest her, shoving it over. Emily heard Ian swear.

  Hard hands closed around Emily's waist to drag her out of the way, and she stumbled backward, her legs crashing into the barrel she had been unpacking earlier that morning. She stumbled, Blackheath crashing against her with an oath. For a heartbeat they both struggled for balance. Failed.

  The breath whooshed from Emily's lungs as she tumbled to the floor, Blackheath attempting to shield her from the flying materials. His beard-stubbled jaw abraded her cheek, his hips were pressed just off center from the apex of her thighs while his breath, hot and moist, trailed down her throat to pool on the bared swells of her breasts.

  He was overwhelming, tall and hard and hot, making her feel suddenly tiny by comparison. Heat seared Emily even through the layers of cloth that separated them—the heat of his anger, the heat of his hard-muscled body, and another heat... that dangerous heat she had seen reflected in his eyes.

  She would have been far less stunned if the shelf had landed on her head. She started to struggle, but Blackheath was already rolling to one side.

  "Blast it, Lucy!" he roared, struggling to clamber upright, his boot soles slipping on the spilled goods.

  But in the midst of the confusion, the little girl had disappeared. There was the sound of the door slamming at the rear of the shop.

  "Damn that child to hell," Blackheath swore, looking around in a daze. "She has to stop throwing furniture!"

  Emily sat up, more shaken than she cared to admit. Thread and ribbons, buttons and trim, were scattered to the corners of the room. The entire display of bonnets had been obliterated, while the expensive French fans that had been Emily's pride were nothing but a mass of broken sticks.

  But it wasn't the ruined merchandise that disturbed Emily so deeply. Rather, it was the jagged edge of anguish that she had heard in the little girl's voice.

  I don't have anyone.

  How many times in the past five years had Emily fought back bitter tears, the same words echoing in her soul? Emptiness. Loneliness. Despair.

  She had suppressed her sadness during the day, keeping busy at an almost frenzied pace. But every night when she fell onto her bed in exhaustion, the emptiness had been waiting for her.

  She started, jarred from her thoughts as warm, reins-toughened hands closed about hers—Ian Blackheath, pulling her to her feet with astonishing gentleness. Instead of releasing her, he looked down at their joined hands, the corners of his mouth turned down in what Emily sensed was a rare moment of introspection.

  "Mrs. d'Autrecourt, I must apologize for my niece's behavior." There was something wrenching in Ian Blackheath's voice. "Lucy is not a... lukewarm child, and she's been through a great deal of turmoil lately. I didn't even know she existed until last night, when she was dumped on my doorstep. I'm afraid I behaved rather badly."

  "Did you throw the furniture, too?" Emily asked, with a half smile.

  "No. I showed admirable restraint in that respect. But you can see that Lucy and I don't suit. I have to get rid of her as quickly as possible."

  Emily's heart gave a dull twist at the image of the little girl facing this daunting uncle she had never met. And then being rejected. "I suppose a child would definitely be inappropriate at a Roman fete," she allowed.

  "Er, exactly." He cleared his throat. "Of course, I can't ship her off somewhere without clothing her first, so if you could hurry with the stitching, I would make it worth your while. The sooner this is all behind Lucy and me, the better it will be for both of us."

  Emily winced, feeling the child's pain as if it were her own. "I'll do my best."

  "Of course I'll pay for whatever damage she caused in her little temper fit. Just let me know how much you need when you bring the garments to Blackheath Hall."

  Emily looked away, suddenly unable to bear the weight of that steady blue gaze.

  "You had best go after Lucy," she said quietly. "She seemed quite upset."

  "Yes. Yes, she did. I don't suppose you would reconsider. About the doll, I mean. I know Lucy went about it the wrong way, but she is very much alone."

  Emily sucked in a deep breath. Her desire to go out into the streets of Williamsburg herself and lay the plaything in the miserable little girl's arms was almost more than she could resist. But it was impossible.

  There were secrets hidden inside the wooden body beneath the tiny gown—secrets that could end the threat of rebellion in the colonies, destroy the enemies of the Crown. Messages from the spies who were the eyes and ears of the English forces.

  She stiffened, afraid that far too much had already been revealed in her eyes.

  "I'm sorry." She forced the words through taut lips. "I can't give up the doll."

  Blackheath started toward the door. He hesitated with a hand curved around the knob and glanced over one broad shoulder. His lips twisted in a smile that could have lured an angel into hell. "If you won't give me the doll, perhaps I should give Lucy to you. What say you, Mrs. d'Autrecourt? Would you like a little girl?"

  The words were a dagger-thrust to Emily's soul. Her throat constricted with memories, with grief. Her mind filled with images of a tiny stone marker among the imposing crypts of the noble family d'Autrecourt.

  "Good-bye Mr. Blackheath," she choked out.

  The door closed behind him, but Emily barely heard it. Blindly she picked her way across the debris to the door and latched it. She sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands, remembering....

  But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't keep her mind from spiraling back five long, barren years to memories that still haunted her dreams. Emily closed her eyes, surrendering to her own private hell.

  Chapter 3

  For a hundred years the brass lion had stood guard at the ducal seat Avonstea, its fangs bared as it stared out across the lands that were the d'Autrecourt birthright. How many times, in summers long ago, had Emily climbed on this very lion? How many times had she curled up in the lion's shadow while Alexander d'Autrecourt sang some melody he had written, the notes in his child-voice pure and haunting and sweet?

  But today she didn't come to this place with the innocent optimism of a child, her head filled with mythical beasts and heroes. She came as a woman, pursued by demons far more terrifying because they were real.

  Emily stood in front of the heavy carved door, cold rain soaking through the layers of her cloak. She was desperate, frightened. Fragments of prayers formed inside her as she pulled the bell.

  She glanced back at the hired coach. The driver, half soused on blue ruin, lounged on his perch, his pockmarked face surly. His pocket was already lined with the last coin Emily possessed. If she was not allowed entry here, she had no doubt that the coachman would leave her. But more terrifying still, he would abandon the coach's other passengers to the relentless elements as well.

  A hollow, racking cough sounded from the coach, making panic surge through her once more.

  Alexander lay inside the vehicle, wrapped up in a woolen blanket. Emily knew the skin beneath his pale gold curls was blazing with fever. His gentle, haunted eyes were sunken with hopelessness and self-blame. He had tried to drag himself out of the coach, not wanting her to face the ordeal of confronting his family alone. But he hadn't had the strength to raise his head. The defeat in his features had been heartbreaking to see.

  Emily's heart lurched, desperation welling up inside her again. She couldn't let him die. This boy who had been her dearest childhood friend, who as a newly grown man had sacrificed himself into marriage with her, though he had not loved her with a husband's passion.

  As a child, he had played the knight-errant to her damsel in distress a hundred times in the shadow of this same brass lion, and had o
ften brandished his wooden sword to drive the beast to its knees. But on that fateful day when he had found her sobbing in the meadow, the only weapon he'd had to defend her with was his name.

  He'd given it to her gladly, saving her from the marriage her parents had arranged for her to a crude and brutal country squire. But this was not a game of pretend to be ended at nightfall when they had both trailed back to their own separate nurseries. And neither of them had suspected the price Alexander's unselfishness would exact.

  Everything.

  Everything this grand estate symbolized, everything Alexander had been born to. He had lost it all. It would be too cruel a price if he lost his life as well.

  Emily blinked back tears, pulling more insistently on the bell. They had to help him now—his father, the all-powerful duke; his mother, one of the greatest ladies in all England. When they saw him—how sick he was, how defeated—surely they would be merciful.

  Emily swallowed the lump of desperation clogging her throat. She would throw herself at their feet if she had to, beg them not to let their son be hurled into Newgate for debts he could not pay. She would beg them to save him from the life of genteel poverty he had known since he had shyly slipped his wedding ring on the finger of a girl who was not his social equal.

  Alexander, always the dreamer, bewildered now by a reality that could be so brutal, so unforgiving. He lay shivering in the coach, holding the one miracle that remained pure and beautiful and good in this nightmare. Their sleeping golden-haired daughter.

  Jenny. Just three years old. Frightened. So frightened.

  Papa's hot, Mama. The child's whimpers echoed in Emily's mind. Make me a song, Papa. I'm frightened.

  Emily choked back her own sob, her tiny daughter's terror magnifying a hundredfold in Emily's own breast. The image of those pleading, innocent eyes turned up to her with such absolute trust was torture beyond imagining when Emily felt so helpless.