"No, Ian. If you are shot down on the highroad, my friend, I shall fall with you. Let that rest on your thrice-cursed conscience."
Ian shrugged. "It's your choice to make. I've never hidden my certainty that I'm bound straight for hell. But I never asked for your company on the trip."
"No. You never asked for anything. Never needed anything. Or anyone. Why do you suppose that is, Ian?"
"You are the man who fancies himself a philosopher, Tony. I'm certain you're aching to tell me."
"Because you're afraid," Tony accused. "You need someone so much that it terrifies you, Ian. You're scared as hell you'll be like your father and need a woman so deeply you'll destroy her."
The acid-hot words seared Ian. "Go to hell, Tony."
"Do you know what is wrong with you, Ian? You've been working so hard at playing the role of bastard all these years that you've finally convinced yourself that you are one." With those words, Tony turned and walked out the door.
Ian sat there a long time, staring at the walls he had built with such care, remembering how he and Tony had laughed, here in this hideaway, half drunk the night they had created the legend that was to become Pendragon.
Why did that suddenly seem so long ago?
Why was he suddenly so damned tired?
Tired of the rage inside him, tired of the places in his heart he'd battled to keep empty so long? Tired of the things people expected of him, the things he expected of himself?
He felt like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse riding straight into perdition.
Because if he didn't keep riding, he wouldn't feel alive.
But he had felt alive when he brushed back Emily Rose d'Autrecourt's bonnet and tasted her lips in the garden, Ian thought with a coiling sensation of something like fear. He had felt a shuddering sense of rebirth, as if he had taken some indefinable step that could never be reclaimed.
A bone-deep feeling of rightness had shaken him, even though there could be nothing between him and the beautiful Englishwoman who had known so much tragedy.
There had been a racing in his blood to rival any wild, careening surge of power he'd known while riding behind Pendragon's mask.
But he was no man for a woman like Emily d'Autrecourt. He was no man for any woman to truly love. He was a bastard, hard, cold, ruthless. There was nothing of goodness left inside him.
He closed his eyes, hearing in his memory the sound of Lucy's laughter when he'd stitched the breeches to his clothes. He heard her voice calling out to him in that delighted way.
Uncle Ian.
He hadn't even known the child had existed a week ago. Why should that simple word, "uncle," sound so infernally sweet to his ears? Why did he catch himself smiling throughout the day whenever his mind wandered to Lucy's mischief?
He didn't even like normal children, let alone a disaster in hair ribbons like Lucy. And when it came to vicars' daughters, he had avoided entanglements with them as if they were the ones who might carry the French pox.
Why was it, then, that for the first time he could remember, he was tempted not to spend his nights drinking and gambling at some jaded party but rather to sit at his own hearthside, curious to see what kind of mischief Lucy had been up to, hungry to see Emily's face, search for an excuse to touch Emily's hand?
No. This was madness. They would be gone soon, the woman and the little girl. And these new emotions he felt were far too hazardous for even Pendragon to allow.
He had to keep Lucy out of his thoughts, keep Emily from beneath his hands.
He had to ride farther, court danger more fiercely, so that it could drown out these new, unwelcome needs inside him. He had to forget the sadness in Lucy's face, forget how small her hand had felt when she had slipped it confidingly into his. He had to let his obsession with danger wash away the taste of Emily's lips, the goodness, the strength, the loneliness that he had found there.
Danger.
That was what he wanted. What he needed. That was the path he had chosen, and it was far too late to turn back now.
With everything in him, he had worked to become the devil's own—rakehell, wastrel, gambler—a dissolute bastard whom no woman would ever look at with trust in her eyes, let alone with love... the way his mother had looked at his father.
Yes, Ian told himself fiercely. Danger was what he wanted.
Endless night-dark highways with pistols firing and branches ripping at his cape as he spurred his stallion into the wind. No one waiting for him, watching for him, welcoming him.
This was what he had always wanted.
He lowered his face into his hands.
Why did he suddenly feel so alone?
* * *
Emily paced the green salon, her fingers trembling as she sipped at tea that had grown cold long ago. She had retired here after Lucy drifted to sleep, seeking the soothing quiet of this room to get control of her own shaken emotions. The child's curiosity about how Emily had treated her own little girl had been insatiable in the hours since they had left the garden. Lucy had asked question after question. What color ribbons looked prettiest in Jenny's hair? Did Jenny like blancmange or syllabub best? Was Jenny noisy or quiet? And had she ever committed the heinous sin of getting jam prints on her mother's dress just as company came calling?
It had been painful at first, those first halting steps as Emily had spoken of all the tiny things that had made up her daughter. How Jenny had loved sparkly things and bright colors. How Jenny had hated syllabub and adored the sweets her papa sometimes kept for her in his pockets.
Lucy had shared memories of her own sea-captain father. A man with a booming voice who had tossed her high in the air and let her climb on the rigging of his ship.
Emily had heard genuine affection in the little girl's voice when she spoke of the man, and she wished that the captain had been spared a watery grave so he could have tended to his little girl.
Only at bedtime had Lucy's inquiries grown painful again, twisting deep into wounds that Emily sensed would never heal.
"When I went to bed," Lucy had confided, "my last lady put out the light and made the room dark, and she laughed and told me that the devil was going to come and get me because I was bad. I told her if he did, I'd make the devil sorry! I wager you didn't make the room all dark for your girl and talk about devils."
"No." Emily had turned away from Lucy, not wanting the child to see the pain in her eyes, but her throat was thick with grief. "Before I put Jenny to bed, I would dress her in her night shift—her favorite one, with the sky-blue ribbons—and I would carry her to the window. She liked to—to say good night to the stars."
"The stars don't have ears. They can't hear you."
"I know it sounds silly, but I loved to hear her saying 'Go to bed now, little twinklies. Go to bed.' And then she'd wrap her arms around my neck, and I would... sing to her."
"Sing?" Lucy had piped up, her eyes sparking with interest. "Are you an accomplished singer or a very bad one? Bad singing makes my ears hurt."
"I'm not accomplished, but I sing well enough."
"Show me. I will say good night to the stars, and then you will sing to me. But I haven't got a night shift at all, only Uncle Ian's shirt that I am never ever giving back to him. Perhaps you could stitch me a shift while I'm sleeping, though, and put ribbons on it, and then I could wear it tomorrow."
"If you'd like."
Emily had smiled secretly as Lucy bade the stars a very embarrassed, incredibly gruff goodnight, and then had tucked the child in bed.
"Now you must sing for me," the girl had demanded. "Like for Jenny. But if your voice is very detestable, I shall have to tell you."
Emily had stroked the curls back from Lucy's furrowed brow. She'd swallowed hard, looking down at those resolutely closed eyes. For a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, she had clung to the notes of that very special song, those exquisite tones filled with longing and love and sorrow and hope that Alexander had created for Jenny on the day she was born.
But the notes snagged on the ragged edges of Emily's heart, tangling there, Jenny's Night Song evoking too deep an anguish, too wrenching a heartache, to share.
Instead, Emily had sung a little French melody that she'd taught Jenny one winter night. When it was done, Lucy's eyes popped open, and she regarded Emily critically.
"I imagine you are quite a tolerable singer, lady, when your voice doesn't get all choky. You may sing to me tomorrow."
The royal seal of approval, so precious when delivered in that haughty little voice.
"I like the kissing thing, too." There was just a hint of wistfulness in Lucy's tone.
Emily bent down and pressed a kiss to Lucy's forehead. She was just starting to slip out the door when Lucy's voice called her back.
"Lady? What was your little girl's favorite thing to play with?"
"She loved to play on her papa's pianoforte. She would sit on the bench for hours, just pressing down the keys, making up little songs. She said it sounded like angels."
"My mama had a pianoforte. I played and played and played on it all the time. But she didn't like it very much."
Emily felt certain that Celestia Dubbonet was not the sort of mother to listen indulgently while a child picked out her first awkward melodies. "Everyone needs time to learn, Lucy. I'm certain with practice you could be... tolerable." She smiled teasingly, using Lucy's word.
"Oh, I wasn't tolerable. I was much better than Mama was. I never hurt the music's soul by banging and crashing like she did. One of Mama's gentlemen liked for me to play for him. Mama got very angry. She pinched me and told me never to touch the pianoforte again. She locked up the room, and I never ever got to make music again. Sometimes I pressed my ear against the door, and I could hear the pianoforte crying."
Emily looked down into the little girl's face and saw her lower lip quiver. There was a vulnerability in her eyes that she knew Lucy worked hard to keep hidden.
"I don't have a pianoforte to love anymore. Now I have... I have... something else. I won't let anyone take it away from... me. Don't want to... hear her... crying..." The words drifted off on a sleepy sigh, Lucy curling up in her accustomed ball, her fingers tangled in the lace of Ian Blackheath's shirt.
Emily's fists had knotted, her nails digging deep into her palms. The doll. Lucy hadn't said the word, but Emily was certain she'd been speaking of the fashion doll.
Heartsick, she had gathered up her stitching and taken up her vigil in the salon. She had tried to look as if she'd settled down for an evening of sewing, but she was really watching the servants as they finished their work and then began drifting off to their own beds.
Ian had been gone ever since he had left her in the garden. And though Emily certainly had no wish to see him, she didn't dare begin her search until Blackheath was safe in his own bed. For even a man like Blackheath might grow suspicious of a governess caught roaming through his house twice.
She couldn't risk confronting the man again in a darkened corridor... not after what had happened in the garden.
And yet the waiting was driving her mad. The tightening band of desperation about her chest made her want to scream, to break the unnatural silence that hung over the huge, mysterious house.
She paced back to her abandoned sewing, grinding her teeth in frustration as she began to tear out a lopsided seam she had stitched in the night shift that Lucy had asked her to sew. But she had barely taken out a dozen ill-set stitches when she heard the sounds of someone's arrival.
Scraps of conversation were audible from the hallway, and Emily could hear Priam and Ian conversing as Blackheath disposed of his cloak and hat.
The tromp of boot soles neared the salon, and Emily all but skewered her right thumb on the needle in her effort to appear engrossed in her task.
She heard Ian stop and glanced over, her eyes widening in surprise. His dark mane rippled loose about the planes of his face, and his eyes seethed with clashing emotions—a dangerous restlessness, a stark despair, and a wild, bounding anger. On his temple she saw a nasty gash.
She felt a quick surge of alarm as she rose and hurried to him.
"Ian, you've hurt yourself!" She stood on tiptoe, reaching up to comb back the waves of his hair with her fingers so she could see the extent of the wound, but he pulled away as if her touch had burned him.
"It is less than nothing. The merest scratch."
"I beg to differ, sir. It needs to be cleansed and—"
"Tony scrubbed the blue blazes out of it already, I assure you," His mouth was a bitter line of amusement. "I don't need you fussing over me as well."
"But you should have sticking plaster to cover an open wound. I'm certain we can find some."
"Blast it, I said to stop this infernal hovering!" he bellowed. "It's nothing! I merely..." He seemed to think for a moment. Then the light in his eyes grew even harder, more than a little frightening. "I had an argument with another gentleman as to which Grecian slave I would claim at the Roman fete next week."
Emily took a step back, her stomach lurching at his cavalier attitude toward something so debauched. But as she stared into Ian Blackheath's face, she suddenly wondered if he was lying. Was it possible that a man who could smile so beguilingly at a child, and comfort a woman with so much tenderness while she spoke of her own private pain, could have lost his way so completely, so thoroughly, and been left to wander the dark paths Ian Blackheath had chosen.
What could have driven him to the cutting cynicism beneath his ready wit? The contempt that seemed to be aimed most often at himself?
His frown darkened as he met her gaze.
"So," he demanded, "is the girl asleep, or has she decided to break up all the table legs so she can get a cunning little hammer to pound with tomorrow?"
Emily winced just a little at his harsh tone. "She is asleep." Even in Emily's haste to get rid of him, she couldn't resist saying, "Lucy confided something astonishing to me tonight."
"Lucy lives to astonish people. I can't even begin to guess what she said."
"Did you know that Lucy plays the pianoforte? From what she said, I gather she is quite gifted. In fact, she is so skillful that her mother objected to the attention the child was getting and prohibited her from playing."
"That sounds like the Celestia I always knew. She could never stand for anyone else to display talent greater than hers, beauty more dazzling, wit more entertaining."
"I was wondering..." Emily searched for the right words. "There was so much longing in Lucy's face when she spoke of her music. There was a... an openness—"
"That should hardly be surprising. Lucy has never been shy about expressing her personal views."
"She wasn't flinging out her opinion this time, nor was she attempting to shock me or to get her own way. This time there was something about her that was... fragile, Ian. So... fragile. It was as if I could peel away the mask she's developed through the years because of her mother's cruelty. It was as if I could see the Lucy who might have been, if life had been kinder to her."
Ian dragged a hand wearily over his face. "I am very sorry for the tragedies that have befallen the girl, if that is what you are asking. And I am certain Celestia's motherly instincts leaned toward eating her own young if the child dared to upstage her. But I can do nothing to change what has happened to Lucy. There is absolutely nothing—"
"I think there is," Emily broke in softly. "You could buy her a pianoforte."
"For the love of Saint Michael." Ian gave a bark of astounded laughter. "The girl is only going to be here until I can pack her off to school. Three months at best. It would be absurd to buy a pianoforte and have it moved in here for such a short time. It would be an inexcusable waste to—"
"You told me you were a wealthy man. If you intend to pack Lucy off, don't you think you at least owe her a little happiness before she leaves? If you would let her have her music, you might be able to reach her in ways that are impossible now."
"You don't know what you're ask
ing. I made it a point not to have any instruments about. They ruin every entertainment. At every ball, every fete, every bloody house party, the ladies feel obliged to scoop the instruments up and torment people's ears with their half-honed musical skills, and I vow, if I see one more chit simpering over the keys, I’ll go stark raving mad!"
"We can allow Lucy to play only when you are gone," Emily cajoled. "I'll set rules for the child."
Ian gave an ironic laugh. "If you tell Lucy not to play when I'm present, the moment I walk in the door, the child will bang on the keys so loud the blacksmith in Williamsburg will be able to hear her!"
"No. Lucy said she never bangs. She says it hurts the pianoforte's spirit."
Ian frowned and then swore as the skin near his injury pulled tight. He raised one long-fingered hand to touch the reddened gash. "The instrument's spirit?"
"That is what she said."
"I see. A pianoforte has a spirit, but obviously my waistcoats do not."
Emily stared at him, feeling wounded herself. What had she really expected? That just because this man had been so good with Lucy about the buttons, he would care about what lay in the little girl's heart?
"Maybe pianofortes and waistcoats don't have spirits," she said, "but little girls do. Spirits that can be battered. Broken. Judging from the things Lucy has said, I consider it a miracle she has any spirit left at all. If you could just trouble yourself to take a few moments away from playing centurion, and help her."
Blackheath grimaced, then crossed to where a decanter of Madeira stood on a polished stand. He poured himself a goblet of the wine and took a long swallow. "But it is so amusing playing centurion. You should try it sometime, my sweet. Perhaps I shall invite you to my next orgy—in the chambre d'amour, five o'clock. Refreshments served. Clothing optional."
Emily felt as if he had struck her. "Why? Why do you do this?"
"Do what?"
"Try to act as if you don't care about anything or anyone? I saw you with Lucy. You were—"
"Hell, I'd pay attention to a performing monkey if it amused me! That wouldn't mean I had developed any abiding affection for it! Believe me, madam, the honey that lured me into the garden this afternoon was most certainly not the child."
The Raider’s Bride Page 17
