Tears had dried in salty tracks on Lucy's cheeks; her golden curls lay snarled across the pillow. The shirt she wore as a night shift was twisted and crumpled; Lucy's fingers were tangled in the lace at the throat, as if she feared that someone would try to take it from her during the night.
Take it as death had taken her mother. Her father. Take it as Emily would take the doll if she ever found it.
The reality was heartbreaking but inevitable. The knowledge that she would have to betray the child was almost unbearable. But what choice did she have when the child's need for the plaything was compared to the danger of leaving brave little Lucy to the mercy of the ruthless men Captain Atwood had hinted at?
It was a choice that was no choice. One Emily had made even before she had come to Blackheath Hall.
But when she made that decision, she'd only seen hints of Lucy Dubbonet's inner torment. Now she felt as if the child's pain had crawled inside her own skin, embedded itself in Emily's own heart.
Never had she witnessed such an enormous well of wrath in such a small child. A hurt too big to hold.
Now, with Lucy asleep, Emily dared to smooth a hand over that round cheek. Her heart wrenched at the occasional catch in Lucy's breath as if, even in sleep, the child was still crying.
There was something so pathetic about defiant little Lucy sleeping in the huge masculine shirt that Emily knew could only belong to Ian Blackheath.
Not just some plain linen garment—heaven knew, even a man like Blackheath must have some clothes that didn't cost a fortune—but a shirt with lace as costly as jewels dripping from the collar and cuffs.
A shirt that would delight the heart of a beauty-loving little baggage like Lucy Dubbonet.
It would have been touching to think that Ian Blackheath had wanted to please the little girl by such a gift, but Emily knew better. He had probably just stalked to his own clothespress and ripped out the first garment he grabbed, hurling it at her in impatience.
This was no tender man with an understanding of fragile child-hearts. This was not Alexander, who had always seemed to know how to delight a little girl.
Emily swallowed hard, remembering that even when there had been little money for coal, and chilblains had nipped at Jenny's hands, the child's face had lit up with smiles when Alexander arrived home.
Jenny would run to him on her sturdy little legs, her hair ribbons flying as she flung her arms about his legs in an ecstatic hug. Then she would drag him off to the pianoforte with demands for nursery songs and little tunes that they made up together.
There was something so infinitely precious about a man who could be led about quite willingly by a little girl's hand.
But Emily sensed that Ian Blackheath was not the type of man to form that kind of an attachment with anyone, most especially a child like the headstrong Lucy. He had made it perfectly clear that she was to go off to school as quickly as possible. And the look of relief on his face when Emily had agreed to take charge of the child had been almost comical.
No, if Lucy were searching for someone to hold on to as tightly as she was clinging to the tangle of her shirt, she would have to look for someone besides her rakehell uncle.
But who would it be? Emily thought sadly.
The headmistress of some school where the child would be just one of countless girls? Lucy was such a unique child, so different from the common way of things. She was strong, yes. But she would never belong in a passel of girls like those she would find at school—girls with adoring parents. Pampered little misses who had everything Lucy did not have, would never have. She would always be excluded, outside the charmed circle of giggles after midnight and whispered stories in the garden. She would always be without the warm hugs of a mama and papa, the holiday visits, the presents on birthdays and Christmas.
She'd never let on that it hurt her. Oh, no. She would only act even more imperious, as if it were all far beneath her notice.
But as Emily looked down at Lucy's face, unguarded in sleep, she was certain that the pain Lucy felt would cut even deeper, scar her even more terribly... perhaps for the rest of her life.
If it had not already done so.
Emily smoothed a curl from Lucy's brow. "Oh, Lucy, Lucy," she whispered to the little girl, "who did this to you? Who hurt you so badly that now you hurt others so swiftly, so completely, that they can never ever touch you?"
Emily's own eyes stung as she thought about the missing doll. Lucy had wanted the doll to love. Not to play with. Not to make believe or rig out in scraps of ribbon and lace. But to love.
A little wood-carved lady with horsehair fastened to the top of her head, and flat, painted eyes, and a smile that never changed. She wanted to love something safe. That could never deal her the pain of rejection.
But the doll would never love Lucy back.
"I'll make it up to you, Lucy. When I have to take the doll, I'll find you something else to love. I'll give you a puppy that will lick your face or a kitten you can trail ribbons to play with."
No, even that seemed a pale offering at best. A puppy didn't have arms to hold you when you cried. It couldn't whisper that it loved you, or kiss away the tears when you were hurt or lost or frightened.
A soft, muffled sound caught at Emily's ears, and she looked down to see Lucy stirring restlessly against the coverlets.
"Hush, little one. Hush. You're safe, Lucy." Emily crooned the words, almost as if to comfort herself.
But Lucy would not be comforted. Tears squeezed again from the corners of her eyelids, the sounds becoming soft little gasps.
She was humming to herself in her sleep. Snippets of some tune so badly fragmented it was unrecognizable. Emily strained to hear it, hoping it was some bit of a lullaby. For it would soothe her own spirit to know that someone had once comforted the child in that method that was as old as time.
But abruptly the murmuring stopped, Lucy's face seeming to relax as some of the tension seeped out of her limbs.
Emily leaned over and slipped her fingers around Lucy's limp ones. Oh, God, she didn't want to feel like this. Ache like this. Ache because of this unwanted child who reminded her so fiercely of how much she wanted her own little girl. Ache with forgotten longings because of the man who had pulled her into his arms and kissed her with such consummate skill she'd barely been able to stand.
She had wanted to flee Blackheath Hall and not stop to count the cost. Had thought of racing off someplace where Atwood would never find her. But she had told Atwood Lucy's name and would leave her at risk.
Risk...
Why did the danger threatened by Atwood and his superiors seem to pale when compared to the danger she had sensed in Ian Blackheath's arms? In those eyes that were so reckless, so bewitching?
Heat spread under her skin at the memory of the things he had said to her in that hot, husky voice, the way he had touched her, as if he knew her body far better than she did and could wring from her any response he chose.
And he could have, Emily realized with a jolt. It had been so long since she'd been touched by anyone, it had been so long since she'd been held in the circle of someone's arms.
There had been times as a girl when she'd had dreams—fairy tales and legends that had captured her imagination. Even though she was a humble vicar's daughter and her romantic prospects were modest at best, she had read tales of knights in armor and princes disguised as beggar lads.
But there had been no room for dreams in Emily's life after her father had announced her betrothal to Squire Toombs. There had been no dreams when Alexander had insisted on becoming her husband.
"I can't let you sacrifice yourself," she'd said. "You don't love me, Alexander. Not that way..."
"You're the finest girl I've ever known, Emmy. My best friend. I'm sure we'll learn to... to rub along all right with each other in that other way, with time. And even if we don't, Emmy, it won't matter."
But it had mattered. In ways they had never been able to speak about. It had mattered in the darkness on t
he narrow bed that they shared. It had mattered at those rare times when Alexander had reached for her, his head a little muddled with drink, his hands sweating and awkward, his gentle eyes filled with shame. She had never refused him, but they had known each other for too long, understood each other too well, for him not to know that there was no real passion in her touch, none of the sense of urgency she felt in him.
There had been such a lost look in his eyes. She could still see him as he had been the night he'd taken ill. Rain soaking him to his skin, those hands that could weave such sweet music shaking as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Emmy. I'm so sorry."
Had he been sorry because he'd lost their last money in a game of faro, condemning them to the horror of debtors' prison? Or had he been sorry for other things, the wounds they'd dealt each other while trying so hard not to. Or had Alexander been sorry he'd ever married her at all?
Her throat constricted. How many times had she wondered if Alexander would have been able to fight the world and his illness if they had been able to love each other in the way of a man and a woman, a husband and a wife. If she had reached deeper into herself and given him more...
No, Emily chided herself firmly. There was no point in tearing herself apart with guilt, no point in wondering what might have been. Such feelings were every bit as futile as the emotions that were stirring inside her toward the little girl who lay curled up in the bed before her.
They could only leave her feeling even emptier than she had before.
With a parting caress to Lucy’s stubborn little jaw, Emily drew away, a tiny thread of unease teasing her.
It was time. Time to leave Lucy to whatever dreams had given her that tranquil expression. Time for Emily to take care of the task that had brought her to Blackheath Hall.
It was time to try to find the doll.
Find it and leave this child who wrenched at her heart, this man who aroused such conflicting emotions in her.
Find it so that she could run back to the safety of her little shop and busy herself with problems that were no more demanding than whether to stitch a blue plume or a red one into the brim of a hat.
But where could she even begin her search? Emily chewed at her lower lip, glancing about the room. Quickly, quietly, she made a thorough examination of the tall clothespress and felt with her hand beneath the bed. But every drawer, every nook and cranny, was empty, a poignant reminder that Lucy Dubbonet had brought nothing with her when she came to Blackheath Hall, except the pain that lurked in her eyes.
Fidgeting with an end of ribbon on her sleeve, Emily racked her brain, thinking. Where could the doll be? Was it possible that it wasn't here at all? That it was hidden somewhere in town, beneath a garden hedge? Under a keg?
No. In spite of Ian's assurances that he had seen nothing resembling a doll on their trip home from town, Emily was certain it had to be somewhere nearby, where Lucy could steal off to cuddle it.
But where?
Knowing Lucy, Emily was certain that the doll would be in the most astonishing place imaginable.
Emily went to the bedside table, her fingers closing about the pewter candleholder. If she could just become familiar with the layout of the house she might get some idea where to begin.
Her eyes strayed to the closed door, her heart beating faster. Swallowing the lump of nervousness in her throat, she slipped out into the corridor.
Pools of light wavered in the darkness where occasional candles had been left burning. A clock in the hallway gave off the only sound, a hushed ticking that seemed to emphasize the quiet rather than break it.
The big house was silent, holding the same brooding quality Emily had seen beneath the thick lashes of Ian Blackheath's eyes. The empty doorways seemed to stare out at Emily, watching her.
Her fingers tightened on the candlestick as she hesitated on the threshold.
Heaven above, what was she doing prowling around the house of a man like Ian Blackheath in the middle of the night?
What if Blackheath was lurking in one of these rooms right now, trying out his centurion style on one of the housemaids? What if he and Flavia Varden had begun their own Roman conquest early?
Her cheeks grew hot at the memory of the bed games Flavia Varden had hinted at in the shop that morning. But the thoughts were even more alarming now, because as she pictured Ian Blackheath taking part in those hedonistic pleasures it was not the lust-hungry Flavia who arched back her neck to seek his fierce kiss. It was Emily herself, a tangle of gauze dripping about her shoulders, Blackheath's sure, seductive hands peeling the gossamer layer away.
She clutched the candleholder more tightly, trying to stop her hand’s trembling. She was being ridiculous. What was she afraid of? That he would throw her down on the floor and force himself on her? No, a man like Blackheath would never use so crude a manner. He wouldn't have to.
And yet, what could Emily say if she stumbled across him?
Excuse me, Mr. Blackheath, but I couldn't sleep and decided to come downstairs to look for a good book? Something intellectually edifying?
She had been excruciatingly embarrassed once, when one of Alexander's friends had produced some shockingly erotic sketches he'd bought from a sea captain who had sailed to Cathay. Would Blackheath hand her something like that and tell her to have sweet dreams?
Her stomach rumbled, the startling sound making her all but drop the candle.
That was it!
The excuse she needed for wandering the house.
She'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and none of the servants had dared to come into Lucy's room during their battle. Emily couldn't stifle a twinge of amusement. The whole staff had probably been cowering as far away from Lucy's temper as possible. If she stumbled upon anyone, she would merely ask the person to direct her to the kitchen and ask where she was expected to sleep tonight.
It was a perfect excuse, one that nobody would question. Feeling a little better, she continued along the hall, then slipped stealthily down the grand staircase that was all too easy to picture filled with beautiful, immoral women busily displaying their charms to the wildest and most dashing men Virginia had to offer.
The first door on the right was ajar, and Emily eased her way through the opening, turning to look at the room beyond. Nothing would have surprised her—except what she saw there. Row upon row of books lined the walls, their bindings having a well-fingered look. A portrait of the cavalier King Charles II fleeing from Worcester in disguise graced one wall, while the other displayed a beautiful image of stallions fighting with majestic savagery over an elegant mare.
Surely even Lucy could not have had the temerity to enter this room. But Emily couldn't stop herself from pacing over to where a massive desk abutted one wall. The surface was clear of the usual mess of papers to be found on such a desk. Three volumes lay open on the gleaming wood. Emily fingered the bindings, and held the candle closer to them, her lips parting in astonishment.
John Locke. Rousseau. Voltaire.
Radical philosophers whose dangerous thoughts had put frightening ideas into the minds of men. Ideas that were already shaking the foundations of monarchies and making men question the divine right of kings.
She tried to picture Ian Blackheath leaning intently over these books, attempting to stretch his consciousness and see the world that these men saw. But it was impossible to imagine Blackheath bothering with any thoughts more serious than what color gauze to dress his mistresses in or which card to play at the gaming table.
No, most likely he was browsing through the volumes to find things he could mock to his friends. Jokes that he could fling out to his neighbors who had caught the fever of rebellion. Yes, that she could imagine: Ian taking the greatest of pleasure in treating such serious-minded rabble to the sharp edge of his tongue.
She started to turn away, but the candle flame glimmered on something shiny, there atop the desk. Her fingers stole out, touching the object that was every bit as surprising as the books themselves had been.<
br />
It was a paperweight. One far too whimsical to belong to a man as cynical as Ian Blackheath. A milky chunk of stone about the size of Emily's fist was crowned by a miniature silver anvil. Thrust through it, and deep into the stone itself, was an intricate golden sword.
The craftsmanship was remarkable, every detail perfection. Emily couldn't stop herself from running her fingertips over the sword's miniature hilt. The single sheet of foolscap it sat atop held a cryptic note: "Beautiful Bessie arrived safely. Meet her at the Red Dragon."
Bessie? The confusion she'd felt about Ian faded, and she grimaced. No doubt Bessie was some mistress who was waiting for Blackheath with eager hands and hungry lips. Some woman as skilled in love-play as Ian himself obviously was.
Here Emily had been creeping around the house, scared half out of her wits while Blackheath was wrapped up in the arms of some temptress miles away at an inn!
She shook her head in disgust, her hand closing on the handle of a desk drawer when suddenly the sound of a door crashing open made her heart fall to her toes.
Panicking, she reached for the candlewick, meaning to extinguish the flame with her fingers, but it was too late. The ring of telltale light spilled out into the corridor like a pool of blood, the heavy, measured tread of boot soles drawing relentlessly closer.
Panic constricted Emily's throat, her hand shaking where it held the flickering candle.
Sweet God in Heaven, Ian Blackheath had come home.
Chapter 8
Never in her life had Emily been skilled at subterfuge. But in that frozen moment she knew her life, and perhaps Lucy Dubbonet's life as well, depended on her ability to fool Ian Blackheath with the flimsiest of lies, for if he suspected that she was prying through his things, she was certain he would fling her out of his house. And then whatever forces Atwood held at bay would be set loose upon them all.
She could only pray that the darkness would hide the guilt she was certain was stamped so plainly on her face.
Rubbing at her eyes in a great show of exhaustion, she stepped out of the room and all but bumped into Ian Blackheath's tall frame.
The Raider’s Bride Page 11
