Ian had hoped that the foal would inherit his sire's beauty and spirit. He had expected the little one to be a jewel. What he had not expected was to find Lucy perched on an overturned box in the stall.
He had been terrified for a heartbeat, knowing how protective a mare could be, knowing what deadly damage those sharp hooves could do.
But the colt's mama had apparently not heard the story of Lucy shearing Tony's stallion, because the high-strung mare seemed every bit as entranced by the little girl as Lucy was with the wobbly colt.
Lucy had been scratching delicately behind the colt's ears, her voice gentle. "You are a very bobbly little horse, I think. But as soon as you can stand up and not wiggle so much, I shall teach you how to be very naughty."
Ian's mouth had quirked in a grin. "How, now, Mistress Lucy. And just what devilment are you up to with my new colt?"
"He is not yours. He's mine," she informed Ian, loftily. "He told me so. His name is Cristofori, and he loves me... oh, very much."
"I can see that." Ian had grinned as the colt nudged Lucy's cheek with his velvety nose, apparently affronted that she was paying attention to someone else. "But Cristofori seems a powerfully large name for such a little fellow."
"It's the name of the man who made the first pianoforte. And when Cristofori is not quite so wobbly, I am going to bring him into my blue drawing room and play songs for him."
"Are you, now? I am certain the downstairs maids will be thrilled to hear it." Ian opened the stall door and started inside, but the mare pranced toward him, her eyes menacing, her ears flattened in warning.
"Hush, now, Mama," Lucy said, skittering off of the box and going to the mare's head. "He won't hurt your baby."
"Lucy, it's dangerous to..."
But astonishingly the mare seemed to settle down beneath Lucy's small hand, merely satisfying her equine sense of maternal protectiveness by tossing her head in Ian's direction one last time and watching him with liquid brown eyes.
"This mama loves her baby very much," Lucy said softly. "When Cristofori fell down, she came and licked him and made soft sounds. She was telling him that he was the best baby horse in the world and that she would never ever leave him alone."
The wistfulness in the little girl's voice had made Ian's heart ache.
"Cristofori's mama would never, ever hurt him. She would do the kissing thing and not care if he played the pianoforte better than she did. I think that Cristofori's mama is like the lady."
She reached up to stroke the mare's rippling mane. "But then, I s'pose that Cristofori is a very good baby horse while I am a fractious girl and not easy to have affection for."
"Lucy, I wouldn't trade your mischief for all the angelic little misses in Christendom. Who would play on the pianoforte for me? And who would snip off my buttons and put on such stunning new ones? And who would... who would give me kisses on the cheek and assure me that my whiskers were not my fault?"
"If I give you a kiss now, Uncle Ian, would you let me take Cristofori out into the pasture to play? I want to show him the sunshine."
The soft sound of Tony saying his name brought Ian back to the present, and he turned to regard his friend.
"You've done wonders, Ian. Pure wonders," Tony said quietly, his eyes on the child and the foal separated from them by a sweep of green pasture. "My God, when I think what the little termagant was like when she arrived here, I can scarce believe it has been so short a time. And"—Tony smiled—"when I think what you were like before, I swear I could kiss the hem of Emily's petticoat in adulation."
"Touch one thread on her gown, Gray, and I'll have you at sword point," Ian said with a kind of possessiveness.
Tony's eyes grew bright, assessing. "My, but we seem to have had a change of... attitude since I almost wrung your neck last night. What did Emily do to unleash this uncharacteristic show of good sense in you? Clobber you with an anvil?"
"No. She..." Ian looked away, his eyes burning, his voice threaded through with awe. "She came to me, Tony, and—" A tiny sound tore from Ian's throat. "My God, Tony, what am I going to do with her?"
"Love her, Ian."
"Love her? How can I? How can I expect her to love me after I tell her the truth? I've been lying to her from the beginning, Tony. A woman like Emily would never understand that kind of deceit."
Tony's mouth curved in a warm smile. "With the kind of love that was shining in your lady's eyes when I saw her last night, Ian, I am certain she would forgive you almost anything. Trust me in this, as one who has already suffered through the first agonies of giving his heart. There is no help for it, my friend. Just hurl yourself off the cliff and savor the fall."
Ian winced at how beautiful that sounded, how enticing. "I can't ask her to share the kind of life I live."
"You're not asking her, Ian," Tony interjected. "She came to you freely. That was her gift to you. And as for the kind of life you live..." A wide grin split Tony's face. "With Emily and Lucy running amok in Blackheath Hall, I'm certain it will never be quite the same again, thank God. I think you might begin the transformation by canceling the Roman fete in favor of a betrothal party."
"The fete? Son of a bitch!" Ian exploded. "I'd forgotten. I'll have Priam see to it at once. All I need is for the house to be flooded with togas and gauze. Lucy would kick up so much mischief she'd make the burning of Rome seem like a musicale!"
"True. And your lady would definitely take exception to your... adoring throng. Nora would unman me forever if she were ever confronted with my sordid past in such a fashion."
"Emily said my past didn't matter," Ian said softly. "That it had made me the man I am. She loves me, Tony, and would change nothing."
"Well, I wouldn't go so far as to nominate you for sainthood, old friend. There are still some things about you I'd like to alter—your infernal stubbornness for example."
But Tony's teasing faded into an indistinguishable murmur as Ian's eyes alighted again upon Lucy.
The child knelt beside the colt, her hands on Cristofori's knobby knees. As if she felt Ian's gaze upon her, Lucy turned and called out, "My baby horse is much less wobbly now, Uncle Ian! Tomorrow I shall ride him!"
"Not for two years, sweeting. It would hurt his tiny legs if you tried it now."
Lucy's face fell as she regarded the colt, but when she turned back, she called out, "It will be detestable hard to be patient, but I would never, ever hurt him." With that she wrapped her arms about the animal's silky neck.
"My God, Tony, I can't wait until Emily sees that," Ian said, raking his hand back through his hair. "I wish to hell she'd return from..."
At that moment there was a muffled sound of hoofbeats approaching, and both men wheeled around, expecting to see Emily's dark hair. Ian's whole body stiffened in shock and unease as his gaze locked upon something far different—a young private in bright regimentals, guiding his horse along the drive.
"What the devil?" Ian gritted out then schooled his face into the expression of lazy arrogance that was the mask of Ian Blackheath.
"What a delightful surprise, Private," he said, bowing amicably as the young man drew rein. "What business brings you so far afield this fine day? Some patriot rumblings? An escaped criminal, perhaps?"
"I am to deliver a message to you, sir," the boy said, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He extended a note sealed with a glob of wax as red as blood.
"For me? How intriguing. Perhaps a letter from Captain Atwood requesting an invitation to my Roman fete. It has been canceled, however, so you may give the good captain my most humble regrets."
"I'm not privy to what's in the note, sir."
"Would you care to wait for a reply? I can order up some refreshment after your long ride."
"No, thank you, sir. I was instructed to go straight back to the guardhouse. No reply is expected."
"I... see." Ian's brow furrowed as he fingered the edge of the note. "Then I'll thank you and bid you godspeed."
The boy wheeled his mount a
round and cantered down the drive as if he feared some malaise infecting Blackheath land would poison him.
Ian frowned, looking at the note, a chill of wariness trailing up his spine. He broke the seal, unfolding the message.
His eyes scanned the painfully precise lines of script, and the blood drained from Ian's face. He grabbed the fence rail, so stricken his knees nearly buckled.
"My God, Ian, what is it?" Tony gasped, grabbing Ian's arm to steady him.
"It's Emily," Ian rasped. "The bastards have her."
"What bastards? Who the blazes—"
"Someone who is threatening to kill her, Tony, unless Pendragon surrenders himself at Harrelson's deserted cottage within the hour."
Tony snatched the note from Ian's numb fingers. "The missive is directed to you. That means... Judas Priest, it means... What the devil are you going to do?"
Ian's jaw knotted. "Exactly what they commanded me to do. I will not gamble with Emily's life."
"For God's sake, you can't just ride out alone!" Tony cried. "It would be suicide! I'll round up the men. We'll find some way to—"
"There's no time. Damn it, they said to come alone. In an hour, by God! Tony, don't you understand? They'll kill her! Because of me. To get to me..." A tortured sound snagged in Ian's throat, dizzying guilt, raw terror all but driving him to his knees.
Oh, God, what had he done, dragging Emily into the morass that was his life? Shattering her quiet, gentle world with the swirling darkness that was his own.
It was his fault, all of it. If she were sacrificed, it would be upon his soul.
"I will not allow you to do this!" Tony raged, grabbing Ian's arm. "Use your head, blast you! Emily wouldn't want you to take such an insane risk."
Ian ripped his arm from Tony's grasp with savage fury. "Emily isn't here! If I don't help her, she'll die!"
"You'll die if you go charging in there half crazed!" Tony said. "Ian, we have to stop, think! Why do you think we've been so damned successful in our raids? Because with your daring and my strategies, the English haven't got a chance. These bastards who hold Emily captive can't be certain you are Pendragon. There must be some way to deceive them instead of racing straight into enemy hands."
"There's no time for plotting, Tony. No time to argue! No time!" Hating himself, Ian did the only thing he could to silence his friend and stop him from following. With a savage uppercut, he connected with Tony's jaw.
Ian heard Lucy scream as Gray slammed backward, thudding to the ground. Then she was running toward them across the broad expanse of meadow, flinging herself through the fence.
"Don't—don't hit anymore! You're scaring Cristofori!" she wailed, when in truth it was her own small face that was streaked with fear.
Regret sliced through Ian as he looked from the child to Tony's still face.
"Lucy, I had to do it," Ian said, catching the child by her trembling shoulders. "Something has happened, and I have to leave."
"No! Don't go 'way!" The child sobbed, clinging to his neck. "Tony said it was sooeyside! I heard him! You'll get killed all dead like my mama, and—"
"The lady is in danger, Lucy! I have to go."
The child released him, skittering back in raw terror. Tears flowed in crystal rivers down her cheeks. "I'm frightened, Uncle Ian. I'm frightened."
Ian caught the little girl in his arms, hugged her fiercely. "I'm frightened too. Stay with Tony, sweeting. And pray, angel. Pray hard."
"I don't want to be alone anymore!" Lucy sobbed. "I'll be in-intolerable angry if you get dead!"
Ian could hear her choking words as he raced away.
Ian leaned low over the neck of his stallion, urging the animal to a pace so wild, so reckless, it seemed as if they danced in death's own palm. The Virginia countryside was a blur around him, the wind whipping his cape and tearing at his hair, the sound of the birds raking across Ian's nerves like a woman's screams.
He had ridden the highroads a hundred times. He had savored the blade-edge of danger.
But now the thundering sound of the horse's hoofbeats pulsed with a peril far too brutal to be exhilarating, a menace that brought not the addictive rush of anticipation or the surging sensation of power but rather a fear that crushed Ian's chest in a vise of terror and ravaged him with the most devastating guilt.
Emily. Her name was a ragged plea on lips that had long ago forgotten how to pray.
She was captive somewhere in the pools of shadow. Afraid.
From the moment the young private had pressed the message into Ian's hand, he had felt Emily's terror inside his own skin, felt her confusion, her pain.
No! He would not let them hurt her! Would not let her die! Since the first day he had donned the mask of Pendragon he had triumphed over the English. He had to focus on the single purpose of snatching Emily from whatever heinous trap she'd stumbled into. He had to stay alert and draw on his strength, his own cunning.
But he couldn't free his mind of the torturous images of Emily, captured, terrified. Emily, an innocent angel with no knowledge of the dark world Ian was embroiled in. Emily, swept from the shores of her safe existence, into the swirling poison that was Ian's own.
He tried to grasp that steely courage that had ever been inside him, that strength that Tony had so often called cold-blooded. An almost superhuman confidence in his ability to triumph—to triumph or to taste of the grand adventure that was death, not much caring which way the fate's ax fell.
But Ian's own words, flung out the night Crane was entombed echoed back to him, hideous now, laid bare of their dark despair, their withering cynicism.
The man who had uttered those words so heedlessly no longer existed. The man who had been willing—no, anxious—to hurl away his life, to be done with the pain of it all, had been changed forever by a little girl's antics and by a woman's loving hands.
Emily had told him he had aspired to be a perfect villain. Hadn't he triumphed in that at last? Could there be any crime more reprehensible, more unforgivable, than the one he was guilty of now?
There could be no fate more horrible than knowing that he was responsible for placing the woman he loved, the woman who trusted him, in deadly jeopardy.
Ian drove his heels into the stallion's sides, urging the beast to race like the wind, wishing the raking branches could scour away his sick sense of foreboding.
Emily, I love you... The words echoed in his head. Emily, please God, be alive....
But there were fates far worse than death, Ian knew. And his lady now lay in the hands of men who were no doubt well acquainted with those more ghoulish pleasures.
Men who would not be opposed to using those skills in order to win the prize they desired.
The life of Pendragon.
It was a forfeit Ian would pay gladly—one night of heaven in Emily's arms in exchange for his own worthless hide.
Yet he doubted it would be that simple. No matter what they promised, the men who held Emily would never free her. Not even after they had him in chains. They would want no loose ends to trouble them later. No one to spread the tale of the capture of a patriot raider, the death of a political martyr who might incite even more Virginians to rebellion.
No, it would be far neater if Emily d'Autrecourt, recently arrived from England, just disappeared. Vanished. No one cared enough to discover what fate had befallen her.
No one except the terrified child he had left in the flower-starred meadow. Pain twisted in Ian's chest at the memory of Lucy's tear-streaked face as he had raced away.
What would happen to the little girl if neither Ian nor Emily ever returned?
Who would she order around in that imperious little voice? Whose buttons would she snip off and then sew on again with such delight?
Would she be shunted off to someone who would attempt to mold her into some proper little miss and shatter forever the tenuous glimmer of trust that had appeared in those child eyes—the trust that Emily had nurtured in the child and that had spilled over onto him?
The trust that he had repaid with lie upon lie.
Was this to be the final vengeance for his myriad sins? That he had been able to touch a future he'd never dreamed possible for just one dream-kissed night, only to have it snatched away?
Damn Emily d'Autrecourt! Damn Lucy! Damn them both for forcing him to open places he'd kept locked for so long. Damn them for making him feel, making him hope. Damn them for giving him a glimpse of the beauty that might have been his. If they hadn't battered through those walls inside him, he would be the same as he'd been on those nights he had ridden before.
Possessed by an almost savage vigilance. A vigilance that might save Emily's life.
A vine slashed at Ian's face as he rode past a copse of trees, and he was grateful for the sting.
Oh, God, what had she thought? His Emily Rose? What had raced through her mind when his true identity was exposed to her?
He winced at the memory of how she had recoiled at the mention of Pendragon. She had shuddered as if she considered the patriot raider a monster.
And maybe he had been.
A wolf, stalking, hungry, ruthless.
It had been easier that way. Far less painful to rove the night like a beast hunting its prey than as a man whose mortality seemed to jeer at him from every shadow, mocking him with his own helplessness and with the fragility of the life of the woman he loved.
Ian reined Mordred in at the brink of a hill where a winding, overgrown path ribboned down to a cottage nestled in the crook of a stream—the meeting place Emily's captors had specified in the letter.
A dozen sentries were visible, scattered about at different posts, more terrified of Pendragon's legend than alert at their duties. They were Atwood's men—bumbling fools Ian and his band had outwitted and outfought a score of times.
Yet when they matched swords before, Tony had been riding at Ian's side, along with numerous other brave men. This time Ian was alone.
His eyes scanned the area, his jaw hardening.
How many other soldiers lurked about, waiting? Ian wondered. There was no way to tell. Instead, he surveyed the structure where Emily was being held prisoner.
The Raider’s Bride Page 25
