The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

  "I am certain you will be quite notorious. There will have been no other pirate like you."

  "You may come with me if you like," Lucy offered with regal grace. "Of course"—her eyes narrowed again—"maybe you would rather stay here and be Uncle Ian's mistress."

  "Lucy!" Emily gasped out, with a nervous laugh. "You are the most incorrigible little wretch! You may put such thoughts out of your mind at once, child. Neither your uncle nor I have any intention of—of forming such an attachment."

  "I think he has attachments with you already. And I think you just don't know how to begin making him de-sotted with you. I could tell you how to act, though. I know just exactly what you must do to make it happen."

  "Lucy, I—"

  "You must wear your bodices cut much lower, and you must touch him whenever you can and tell him he is the most 'stonishingly brilliant man you ever saw, even when he is being the veriest blockhead." Lucy seemed to consider. "Although Uncle Ian doesn't act like a blockhead as often as the other men I know."

  "Lucy, I'm not about to discuss this with you a moment longer!"

  The child sighed. "I 'spose I can't make you act all silly around him if you don't want to. But I think it would be fun to watch you get all pink in the face, and see him bring you presents. But since you are being detestable stubborn, you must look at my sketchbook and tell me it is lovely."

  Emily snatched the child's drawing as if to use it as a shield from the feelings Lucy's words had set loose in her. But the picture the child had drawn only tightened her nerves further still.

  It was no child sketch of a house or a bowl of fruit. No bed of flowers or even a pirate ship. There on the page was an image that was strangely frightening—a menacing figure of a man astride a rearing horse, a cape fluttering in the breeze, a mask covering his features. He held a sword that had enough blood dripping from its point to satisfy even Lucy's ghoulish little heart.

  "Lucy, what is this?" Emily asked a little faintly.

  "It's a picture of Pendragon," Lucy volunteered. "He has just killed some very bad English people. He likes to do that very much."

  Emily shivered. "Where did you hear of such a thing?"

  "The first night I came here, the housekeeper tried to scare me by telling me that Pendragon would come and fetch me away to the devil. But I think he is too busy fighting bad soldiers to bother with me. I heard Priam and the kitchen maid talking about him, and they said Pendragon was very good. He gives people money for new roofs so the rain can't come and make their children sick. Sometimes he kills those English soldiers dead with his sword. But when he catches a spy, he doesn't even bother to get his sword bloody 'cause they're so despicable. He just throws them in caves and buries them right alive."

  Emily felt icy fingers trailing down her spine. "I hardly think someone who would do something so terrible is a hero, Lucy."

  "But the spies and soldiers did a terribler thing, Lady." The child's sense of justice only deepened Emily's unease. "I think they deserved to be stuck with his sword. I wish I could see him stick them! I'd dance around and—"

  Emily felt the color drain from her face. "Lucy, enough!"

  The child looked genuinely stunned. "I was wrong before," she said slowly. "You are much more distracted than Uncle Ian."

  "What ho?" The sound of a masculine voice from the doorway made them both turn to see Ian standing there. "Defaming my character again, moppet?"

  Emily's heart slammed against her ribs, and she prayed that he would attribute her discomfort to the happenings of two nights before rather than to Lucy's heedless babble about Pendragon and English spies.

  She tried to think of something to say, to make his thoughts veer away from the topic of conversation, but her mouth was so dry from taking in the sight of him that she couldn't have strung three words together to save her own life.

  His unruly mane was tied back in a neat queue, royal blue breeches clinging to his thighs. He'd abandoned his frock coat somewhere, leaving him garbed in nothing but a snowy white shirt and an open waistcoat of blue and scarlet ribbed silk.

  Yet the most beautiful thing of all was his face, that arrogant face now shadowed with just a hint of reticence, the accustomed boldness of his gaze tempered with just a whisper of bewilderment. In a heartbeat, Emily knew his nights had been as restless as her own and that he was struggling to keep that knowledge from her with his jaunty manner.

  "Good afternoon, ladies," he said, sweeping them a bow.

  "I have been somewhat... distracted by business the past few days, and I would like you to come and survey my work."

  "I have been very busy, too," Lucy piped up. "I have been trying to teach the lady how to be your mistress."

  Ian made a sound as if he were strangling on his own neckcloth as Lucy continued.

  "I am quite certain that you would like her to be your mistress, but she will not cooperate in the least. So I drew a picture of Pendragon instead."

  "Pendragon?" Ian echoed in a strange tone.

  "He is a raider who skewers bad English people, but the lady doesn't like him at all."

  "I just..." Emily put in hastily. "People who commit cold-blooded murder are not... not good examples for children, Lucy. I—"

  "You are very wise to warn her away from such a devil. I am certain that the lady is right, Lucy. Pendragon is beneath contempt."

  What was it about Ian's face that was so disturbing? His features were so tight that Emily couldn't help but wonder whether or not Ian himself had had some sort of confrontation with the seditious revolutionary.

  But almost at once, Ian's mouth curved back into that taut grin, though Emily disliked the glint in his eye. "Lucy, I am certain that you won't have to concern yourself with the rogue much longer," Ian said. "A man like Pendragon was born to hang. Doubtless someone will soon be happy to oblige him by providing a rope."

  "I always wanted to see a hanging," Lucy said, glancing down at her sketch. "But I don't think I would want to see that one."

  "Well, perhaps you would prefer another sort of entertainment. If you will allow me?" Ian gestured to the door. Lucy got up from her chair, seeming to shake away the almost pensive expression that had come onto her face.

  "You, too, Emily Rose."

  He extended his hand and took hers, drawing it through the crook of his arm. With the other hand he caught Lucy's fingers.

  Emily was struck by the unconscious gesture. There was a certain possessiveness in his touch, as if she and Lucy belonged to him. And in that instant Emily was certain that the child wished that were true as much as Emily herself did.

  Ian escorted them through the corridors to the closed doorway that led into the sunniest room of the house—a formal blue and gold withdrawing room that the maids had loftily informed Emily was reserved for only the most important guests.

  Ian let go of Lucy's hand, his fingers closing on the latch. "Lucy, this is to be your room for the duration of your stay here. And whenever you come to visit at holidays after... after you have gone off to school."

  "I'm not going off to school," Lucy said breezily. "I've decided."

  "I... see." Ian seemed to want to contradict the child then thought better of it. "We'll talk about that later. Right now I think there is something else you would much rather do."

  With that he swept open the door.

  Lucy gave a choked gasp, Emily's own throat constricting as she looked into the exquisitely decorated room. Gilt dripped from every available surface, crystal prisms glinting from the chandelier that crowned the ornate ceiling. It was a room fit for a princess, especially one like the haughty little baggage who stood poised on the threshold of her very own wonderland.

  For in the center of the room, like a glossy-polished shrine, was the most beautiful pianoforte that Emily had ever seen.

  With a half sob of joy, Lucy took a few stumbling steps forward, then stopped and gave Ian a look of almost anguished ecstasy mingled with disbelief. "For me? You... you said it is for me?"<
br />
  "Absolutely, Lucy love." His voice was gravelly-rough. Emily loved him for it.

  With a cry, the child raced over to the instrument, caressing it with such rapture that Emily thought her heart would break.

  But when the little girl slid onto the bench and began to strike the keys, the ache inside Emily's breast intensified until she felt as if she were slowly shattering into a hundred tiny pieces. Pieces that could only be made whole by the child who sat coaxing mystical, magical music out of the pianoforte, and by the man who stood beside Emily, more uneasy than she had ever seen him.

  She turned to Ian, letting her heart show in her eyes. "You are the most wonderful man," she managed, her voice shaking. "Wherever did you find it?"

  Ian shrugged, his cheekbones darkening. "It was no great feat. I heard that Colonel Glendenning had a bit of a conflict with Pendragon the other evening. It seems the brigand has an ear for fine music and took exception to the way that Glendenning was playing a piece by Bach. Pendragon forbade the man ever to play again."

  "A rebel thief ordering about an officer of the king? I can hardly believe it's possible! And the colonel yielded to his wishes?"

  "Er, yes. This particular rebel thief has that effect on people. At any rate, I rode to Glendenning's yesterday morning to inquire about his health, after his humiliating confrontation with the rebel scum. And as an afterthought I inquired after his pianoforte as well. Glendenning was more than happy to part with it. Of course, it took a bit of doing to transport it here in one piece."

  At that moment, Lucy turned to Ian, and her eyes were shimmering with tears. "I shall keep the windows of my room open, and I shall play Bach every night for Pendragon. And he will wear his mask and his cape and listen. And he will like it very much because music is the one thing I am most accomplished at that isn't very naughty."

  Lucy scooted to the end of the bench, her lower lip trembling. "Do you... do you think he would like that, Uncle Ian?"

  "You shouldn't waste your music on a scoundrel like Pendragon, moppet. It's far too beautiful."

  "I like scoundrels," Lucy said stoutly. "That is why I like you."

  With that, Lucy sidled up to him, a shy light in her eyes. "Uncle Ian?"

  "What, sweeting?"

  "The lady showed me something yesterday that I never knew before. Do you know about the kissing thing?"

  "The kissing thing?"

  "That it's not just only for mistresses and their lovers and such. That you can kiss people to make them feel better. Or to show 'ffection for them. She says it's all right."

  "Yes, Lucy," Ian said, looking endearingly ill at ease. "I've heard about the kissing thing."

  "I've never ever done it to anyone," Lucy confided, her eyes round and serious. "But I'd like to... to try it now. If you wouldn't object terrible much."

  Emily's eyes stung as Ian Blackheath knelt down to the level of his little niece, his own voice a trifle unsteady.

  "No, Lucy," he said softly. "I wouldn't object at all."

  The child hesitated a heartbeat longer, then went to Ian and awkwardly kissed his cheek.

  "You are much pricklier than when the lady kissed me," Lucy said as she drew away. "But that's all right. It's not your fault that you have whiskers."

  With a groan, Ian gathered the little girl in his arms, holding her tight, so tight.

  Emily could barely stifle the sob that rose in her own throat as she saw those strong arms encircling the child, Ian's dark head contrasting with Lucy's golden curls as he buried his face against her.

  Those dauntingly masculine shoulders quaked just a whisper beneath the shield of his waistcoat, and Emily could feel the white-hot searing of Ian Blackheath's barely suppressed tears.

  * * *

  Moonlight was sifting through the trees that lined the drive to Blackheath plantation. Emily walked along the dusk-shrouded ribbon of road, listening to the night sounds and trying to drive back the shards of pain inside her.

  Ian was still in the blue drawing room, listening in enchantment as Lucy Dubbonet spun out music so sweet that Emily was certain the angels had stopped singing and were bending down from their clouds to listen.

  Was Jenny listening, too? Emily wondered as she looked up at the sky. Was she clapping her chubby little hands and cooing with delight? Was she crying out in that happy eager voice, as she had in the tiny rooms in London, More pretty! More?

  The child had been insatiable, forever singing or playing her papa's instrument. Her eyes had always shone most brightly when Alexander played for her.

  Whenever she played her little compositions for him, he had puffed up with pride and said she showed great promise.

  Jenny. Forever three years old. Like the most fragile bud on a broken rose tree, filled with the promise of beauty, but never, never to blossom.

  Would Jenny have been very like Lucy? Her fingers touched with that heavenly fire that made them able to transfer every emotion—joy, heartache, frustration, anger, and, sweetest of all, love—into musical notes that could insinuate themselves into other people's souls forever?

  Would Jenny have been as brave as the little girl even now sitting on the bench in the drawing room? Would she have been as delightfully amusing, as incredibly resourceful? Would she have been exasperating and adorable all at once?

  No, Jenny would have been far different if the fever hadn't stolen her away. She would always have known that her mother loved her. She would always have known "the kissing thing" and how it felt to be tucked into bed with a lullaby. Her own Night Song.

  Emily paused beneath the shadowy trunk of a tree and leaned against it.

  Oh, God, what had she done? She had fallen in love with Ian—excruciatingly, totally in love. She had given her heart to Lucy, that most astonishing and wonderful of children. She had opened herself to pain beyond imagining.

  Pain so great that she hadn't been able to stay in the room with them for another moment, knowing that neither the child nor the man could ever be hers. She had come out into the darkness to endure the familiar ache of her old grief.

  Lucy and Ian were a part of her now, as irrevocably as Jenny was. Something precious, painful. Eternal.

  The sound of hoofbeats coming up the road made Emily stiffen, and she all but ducked behind the tree, wanting to avoid whoever was approaching. But she hastily wiped the traces of tears from her eyes and attempted to compose herself.

  She glimpsed the rider and recognized Tony Gray. And she could almost laugh when she saw that Ian's friend had bound up his horse's tail in such a complex a latticework of ribbons that it would have taken Lucy and her cunning little scissors an aeon to snip them free.

  She prayed that she would escape his notice or that, at the very most, he would tip his hat and ride past her. Instead, Gray reined his mount to a stop a short distance from where she stood.

  "Mrs. d'Autrecourt," he said a little stiffly. "Good evening. I hope that you are..." The words trailed off, and Emily was suddenly, sickeningly aware that the filtering of moonlight had betrayed her.

  Gray swung down with great haste, ground-tying his horse, and came to her, his face a study in concern.

  "Is something amiss? By damn, if Ian has taken his temper out on you—"

  "No! It's nothing with Ian. He's in the house, listening to Lucy play the pianoforte."

  "Ian doesn't have a pianoforte!" Gray objected, totally taken aback.

  "He does now. He brought it here for Lucy, as a surprise. A Colonel Glendenning didn't want it any longer. And Lucy adores music."

  "He bought a pianoforte for the child?" Tony stared, amazed. "By God's feet, I can scarce believe it!"

  "She's been playing it for hours," Emily said, "and he's been listening."

  "Is she so terrible, then, that you had to flee the house?"

  "No. She is so wonderful it breaks my heart." There was something so kind about the blond Tony Gray, something so comforting in the way he took her hand and patted it.

  "I don't under
stand," he said softly.

  "It's a very long, very sad story," Emily murmured, looking away. "Suffice it to say that I had a child once, a little daughter who loved to play the pianoforte. She was lost to me when a fever struck."

  Gray cleared his throat. He squeezed her fingers in comfort. "I'm sorry."

  "I thought that by coming here I could forget. But everywhere I look, I remember. I watch Lucy, and I imagine my little girl. And Ian..."

  "What about Ian?"

  "He is hurting so badly himself, but he won't let me help him."

  "You love him." The words were filled with concern but also with a very real joy.

  "I can't. I don't want to. He's made it quite clear that—"

  "So that is why he's been acting like a wolf with his tail caught between two stones! No wonder!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It all makes perfect sense!" Gray said with almost frenetic enthusiasm. "The man is crazed in love with you, by God, and he's having to eat his own damned words! I wager he's not liking the taste of 'em!" There was consummate satisfaction in Tony's voice. "By God, vengeance is every bit as sweet as the philosophers claim it is!"

  "Mr.—Mr. Gray," Emily stammered, "I don't understand!"

  Tony grinned. "I fell in love myself recently, and Ian was a trifle... It's impossible to explain. Just let me say that I am elated for you! And I'll make him see reason if I have to knock him over the head with an anvil."

  "No! Please, no!" Emily cried in alarm. "His head already has a gash—"

  "Well, I suppose getting his skull blasted apart would have been less discomfiting to him than facing me after what's happened. I..." Gray suddenly sobered, as if realizing he'd said too much.

  "Mrs. d'Autrecourt... Emily," he said quietly. "May I call you Emily?"

  She nodded her assent.

  "This falling in love will not be easy for Ian. He'll drive you past bearing—God knows he's made me want to murder him this past week. But once he admits that he loves you, you'll never have to doubt him. Despite his reputation and all the gossip you might hear, there is no finer man in Christendom. If he could only be brought to believe it himself." Gray stared down into her face, and in the moonlight she could see his eyes glowing. "Maybe you can convince him of that. Heaven knows I've tried often enough."