The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

  "A soldier," Ian spat. "Is that what English soldiers do in the name of their king now? Rape defenseless women?"

  "Damn you, Blackheath, what is worse? My... touch, or a bullet through her flesh! For God's sake, man, what would you have me do?"

  "Atwood, take her," Fraser commanded.

  Ian caught the slightest hesitation in the soldier, before Atwood grabbed Emily's shoulders, hauled her away from Ian.

  She cried out, stumbled back.

  Ian strained against the ropes on his wrists, but Fraser's voice cut in.

  "Her thigh, Blackheath. Perhaps I'll shatter her thigh. How many times have you imagined those thighs, Blackheath, silky smooth, wrapped around your hips, urging you deeper, harder—"

  "No, Ian, don't—" Emily was crying out.

  "That way," Fraser continued, "you will be properly chastised, but she will still be useful to—"

  "Stop it, you bastard! I'll kill you, I swear—"

  "That might be difficult, considering the fact that you are tied up and I am holding a loaded gun. Of course, you are welcome to try it, if you'd like to endanger the woman's life."

  Fraser was enjoying this, damn him, with the sick pleasure of a fallen preacher titillating himself with the confession of a whore.

  Atwood's hands were on Emily, her skin starkly pale against the captain's regimentals, the scarlet surrounding her like a pool of blood.

  "Her bodice, Atwood. Perhaps you would like to begin unlacing it."

  Emily was shaking, her hair tumbling down in a cascade of mahogany curls, clinging about her white face. Fraser laughed at her terror, caressing the barrel of his pistol. "My dear captain, when you seduce a beautiful lady on your own, I would hope you would be more ardent."

  "Don't mock me, Fraser!" Atwood raged. "Do what you will to Blackheath, but I won't be a party to hurting this woman, damn your eyes!"

  "You won't be a party to this? And who is giving the orders here? You'd best not forget."

  "The king himself could order me to rape a defenseless woman and I would tell him to go to perdition."

  "Would you? And what would you say if I put a pistol ball through your groin so that you would never again have to worry about such carnal urges?"

  Atwood's lips thinned. "Just because I oppose this rebel scum doesn't mean I am willing to taste his blood by harming innocents."

  "Then perhaps I shall dally with the lady myself. But not in the way I suggested to you. No, I prefer applying the bite of a knife to someone's flesh rather than answering the clamoring in my loins. What think you, Blackheath? Perhaps if I were to carve the name of Pendragon on her cheek, you would be ready to confess your villainy? If I were to slice that satiny smooth skin until it lies in bloody ribbons..."

  Impotent rage thundered through Ian's veins, a helplessness such as he'd never known before. Desperately he tore at his bindings, his wrists growing slick with sweat and blood as he struggled to free himself, his eyes searching for a weapon, something, anything, he could use to defend her.

  His gaze skimmed Emily's face, and it was as if a blade had carved out his heart. Those beautiful features were wild, stark, her face like that of a damned soul slipping inexorably into hell while Fraser watched her—Lucifer incarnate, greedily feasting on her pain.

  "Would you like me to entertain your woman, Pendragon? It is your choice."

  And in that paralyzing instant Ian knew that he would say anything, do anything, to keep Emily from suffering. Desperately he groped for something to deflect Fraser's fury from the trembling woman in Atwood's arms. Anything, except the one price Fraser demanded—the death of the men who had served so bravely under Pendragon's command.

  Oh, God, if he could only face Fraser alone, the English scum could do his worst—unleash whatever savagery lurked in the bastard's soul. Ian had reconciled himself to death long ago. He knew he possessed the courage to endure whatever brutal payment Fraser demanded for Pendragon's sins.

  But to watch Emily pay in his place...

  "You have me, Fraser," Ian said through gritted teeth. "I don't give a damn if you make an example out of me before the whole of Virginia. Flay my bloody flesh away an inch at a time, and I vow I'll not so much as turn a damned eyelash, if you'll just let her go."

  "You'll sign a full confession?"

  "No, Ian," Emily cried, "I can't let you—"

  "I'll confess to being bloody King George himself if you'll release her."

  "That would be highly amusing, but unfortunately one corpse would not be quite as impressive as, say, twenty would be. You know my price, Pendragon."

  "Damn you, even if I were Pendragon, how could I condemn my own men to death?" He gave one more savage, futile tug on his bindings, knew it was hopeless to think he could get free. His gaze slashed to Emily, sick with defeat. "Oh, God, Emily Rose, how can I let them hurt you?"

  She ripped free of Atwood's grasp, stumbled toward Ian. And it was as if she were shattering, a strange, fierce light in her eyes. "No! Ian, you must listen to me. I'm not worthy of your protection. I—I am the one who brought you to this pass."

  "It's hardly your fault they captured you, lady. Forced you to—"

  "I came here of my own free will." Her words slashed through him like a Saracen's blade. "I brought Fraser the evidence that condemned you."

  "You mean that you—" Ian stared at her, a ravaged angel in her flowing gown, her lips trembling. And he felt as if he were being swept away by a nightmarish sea, drowning in a haze of disbelief. "No. It can't be. You would not have—"

  "You said once you thought it generous that my benefactor gave me title to my shop," she cut in, her eyes meeting his, level, steady. "The price he demanded was that I pass information to the English troops."

  "You're trying to convince me that you were some kind of English spy? Emily, don't be absurd! It's impossible."

  "Secret messages were hidden inside fashion dolls." Emily had stretched out the hand that he had begun to hope could heal him, and had dealt him a wound so jagged that he knew he would never be whole again. She gestured to a table. "Dolls exactly like the one that Lucy stole from my shop."

  Ian's gaze locked on the wooden lady sprawled like a half-torn corpse on the scarred oak surface. The doll Lucy had left for him last night, along with the letter in which she confided her love. The doll that had been abandoned when he made love to Emily.

  He swayed against the chair, hating himself for his own gullibility, trying to grasp something too ghastly to comprehend. Suddenly the pieces of a hideous puzzle locked into focus with mind-shattering clarity.

  He staggered beneath memories of Emily demanding the doll, Emily wandering about Blackheath Hall, searching... For a bed, she had said one night, and on another night she had admitted she was searching for the doll in the chambre d'amour.

  But never had he suspected the reason she was so desperately searching. Never had he realized that the mysterious secret that had eluded Atwood was hidden away in Ian Blackheath's own house.

  A part of him died as he looked into that treacherously lovely face. "That is why you came to Blackheath Hall. That's why you feigned concern for Lucy, love for the child. You were all sweet smiles and cloying understanding—only because you wanted the doll."

  "What did you think, Blackheath? That she was a gift from God?" Fraser sneered. "Didn't it ever seem a trifle too convenient that you had a child dropped upon your doorstep one night, and a governess the next?"

  The words were brutal, ripping away the veil of mystery from so many things, baring ugliness, deception, in place of what Ian had so briefly believed was his own special miracle.

  "Did you really believe that a woman like this one would want anything to do with a depraved fellow like you? A worthless, debauched animal with a reputation so foul that people can smell the stench of you clear to Boston? You fool, you witless fool! Did you truly believe she could love you?"

  "Love me?" Ian ground out, his gaze flashing to Emily's. "No. In truth I never belie
ved that was possible. Never."

  Emily raised her chin, her voice only a little unsteady. "I would have done anything to get the doll back, Ian. Anything."

  Why was such pain lurking along the edges of those soft, kissable lips? Why could he now see a shadow of deception in those amethyst eyes? Sweet God, why hadn't he seen it before?

  "You would have done anything?" His heart was an open wound. "You would even have suffered coming to my bed."

  She paled, and Ian hated her for the way she seemed to waver for a moment, looking fragile, bruised. He cursed himself for his own weakness. "Yes. Even coming to your bed."

  "Perhaps"—Fraser's malevolent chuckle raked across Ian's nerves—"it is a mercy that we must kill her. Most likely she's been infected with French pox by such an notorious whore-chaser as you, Blackheath."

  "Kill her?" Atwood cut in. "No! Curse you, Fraser, I—"

  Fraser cast a scorn-filled glance from Atwood to Ian, laughing, laughing. "What asinine fools the pair of you are! You, Atwood, for believing I would let the woman live after all she's seen, and you, Blackheath for believing that a woman of quality such as Emily d'Autrecourt would stoop to bed you."

  Ian said nothing, wished to God that he could feel nothing.

  "However," Fraser continued, "while this distressing if belated honesty on Mrs. d'Autrecourt's part does nothing to change my plans for her, it might change your reaction to them, Blackheath. Perhaps you will savor watching her scream beneath my knife, since you know that she prostituted herself in your bed."

  Fraser paced toward him, that greedy light in his soulless eyes. "What are you doing, even now, Blackheath? Remembering her shrill cries of pleasure, her faithless words of love? Are you remembering the hunger you believed you felt in her hands? Lies! All lies! While she suffered you to touch her, she was filled with revulsion."

  Ian felt himself teeter on the blade edge of sanity, felt the waves of darkness ooze inside him, thick, unyielding, plunging him into a hopelessness so complete the suffocating blackness obliterated everything in its path, crushed the flicker of hope Emily had stirred in him when she became his ladylove.

  His love?

  No. His betrayer. The woman who had finally destroyed Pendragon, all but brought him to his knees.

  Sweat beaded on Ian's brow. One more glimpse of Atwood's hands on her or Fraser's threats and she might have been woman who had broken him, made him turn Judas.

  No. Surely even the poisonous love he'd felt for her would not have brought him so low.

  "You traitorous bitch." The words were deadly. Quiet. His mouth curled in hatred.

  She pulled away from Atwood, her fingers clutching at the delicate silver lace gilding the front her jacket, her hands shaking as she paced over to the table, braced herself against it. "Yes, Ian. That is exactly what I am."

  "And now, that you've been caught in the jaws of your own trap, what do you expect me to do? Sacrifice a score of brave men in your place just because you are a woman? Go to hell, Emily Rose. You're about as helpless as an adder and thrice as dangerous."

  Fraser chuckled. "Then you should rejoice when you see her writhing, hear her screaming, shouldn't you? I wonder. Are you man enough to listen? Even after all she has done, do you have the stomach to stand here and watch her with me?"

  Ian despised himself for the surge of bile that rose in his throat, the fierce protectiveness he couldn't deny.

  Damn her, he hated her. Liar. Spy. Tory. He hated her. Didn't he?

  "Blackheath, for God's sake," Atwood pleaded. "Whatever happened between you, don't let him do this to her. Tell him—"

  "I would rather watch her suffer than watch a score of brave men die." It was a lie. He hated the fact that he was still held in thrall by those eyes. Those lovely, treacherous eyes.

  Hemp sawed deep into his wrists, shards of pain shooting up his arms as he twisted his hands against the ropes. "She made her choice long before I laid eyes on her."

  Ian detected the slightest scraping sound on the table, saw Emily turn, one hand concealed in the folds of her satin skirts. "You're right, Ian," she said softly, walking behind him. "I have made my choice."

  Sharp, slicing pain ripped into his hand as she passed, and Ian steeled himself not to cry out, not to betray her as he felt something sharp jammed between the ropes and his hand.

  He grasped what she had wedged there... a knife. Small, by the feel of it, but a weapon nonetheless.

  Stunned, Ian grasped the hilt in one hand, worked to saw at the bindings.

  Sweet God, why had she done that? Given him the weapon when she was the one in deadly peril? Because she cared for him?

  No, Ian thought savagely. Because he was able to take on both Fraser and Atwood far better than she was.

  Even a stalking tigress would want to save her own skin.

  "Mr. Fraser, you can see that now he cares nothing for me." She was pleading, in a broken angel's voice. "I—I did exactly as you ordered. I passed the messages. I was loyal."

  "Yes. You've given ample evidences of where your loyalties lie," Fraser snickered as if at a jest only he understood.

  "I don't deserve to be savaged for my service to the Crown." Emily wrung her hands as she moved nearer Fraser. "When I sought out this opportunity to come to the colonies, I—"

  "When you sought the opportunity?" Fraser sneered. "Still the naive little vicar's daughter, are you? I sought you out specifically to ensnare you into my service. A dangerous business in which I could use you as long as it amused me and then dispose of you."

  Emily looked stunned, faltered for a moment. "I don't understand. Why..."

  "I did it as a favor to a longtime acquaintance. His Grace, the duke of Avonstea. It was the duke's final wish that you be eliminated in a way commensurate with the amount of pain you had heaped upon his family."

  "That makes no sense! Alexander has been dead for five years! Why would the duke wait so long to take action against me? What possible reason could he—"

  "It seems that one Jedediah Whitley had discovered some distressing information that he planned to convey to you. Avonstea was eager to make certain it could never reach you."

  At that second, Ian gave a savage tug on the knife, his ropes snapping free. The knife skidded from his grasp, slick with his own blood, the sound charging the room into chaos as he launched himself to his feet, grabbed the chair, and sent it flying at the stunned Atwood. The captain gave a hoarse cry as he fell, his head cracking with a sickening sound against the floor.

  Ian wheeled toward Fraser, expecting to feel the burning impact of a bullet, but the man's bulky body was obscured by a blur that was Emily, hurling herself against Fraser's arm.

  Fraser gave a cry of rage as the pistol flew from his hand.

  Before the man could right himself, Ian slammed his shoulder into Fraser's midsection. Knotting his fist, Ian slammed it into the man again and again, but Fraser was deceptively agile and well schooled in combat.

  With brutal power, Fraser drove his fist into Ian's jaw. Ian sprawled backward, struggling to roll over, regain his feet, but before he could, Fraser landed on one knee with killing force upon Ian's stomach. There was a sickening sound of ribs cracking. Ian's chest felt as if it had caved in. But he gritted his teeth against the blinding pain, bringing his own knee up, hard, into Fraser's groin.

  The man howled, doubling over, and Ian shoved Fraser off of him and rolled atop the big man. In a flash Ian grabbed up the knife and pressed the point against Fraser's throat.

  Ian caught a glimpse of Emily, Fraser's pistol looking ludicrous in her shaking hand as she held the moaning Atwood at bay. Then Ian turned to Fraser. The man stared back with soulless eyes, and Ian could see the reflection of what he himself might have become.

  "Well carried out, milord Pendragon," Fraser purred. "But how do you expect to escape the men still on alert outside?"

  "You can watch me escape them while you're on your way to hell."

  Fraser smiled that evil smile.
"Ah, I see. You have it all planned out. All you have to do is kill me. There is only one problem, Blackheath. If you do, the woman will never know."

  "Know what?" Ian snapped. "Damn your eyes, tell me—”

  "It doesn't matter!" Emily's hands were shaking even worse. She sounded sick, exhausted, hopeless. "Ian, just... just finish it. Nothing matters anymore."

  "Not even were I to tell you about your daughter?" Fraser chuckled malevolently.

  "My... daughter?" Emily echoed faintly.

  "He's stalling, Emily," Ian snapped. "This is just a ploy to unnerve you."

  "Is it?" Fraser demanded. "Are you willing to risk that it is not, Emily? Let me tell you what I know about Jenny d'Autrecourt. Her gravestone is Italian marble with roses climbing over it. Roses like the ones you kept on your windowsill in London before your husband died. There is an angel carved on the stone you commissioned with what money you earned working for a Quakeress. And you would visit the grave as often as you could, to tend the roses, and you would sing to the child. A melody—"

  "J-Jenny's Night Song." There was a stark, broken sound to Emily's voice. Ian didn't want to feel it wrench inside him, but it did.

  "Damn it, Emily, don't listen to him!" He couldn't help but shift his gaze to her for a heartbeat. That was all Fraser needed.

  With lightning swiftness he hurled Ian off of him, the back of Ian's head connecting with the edge of the table. Red haze engulfed Ian, his stomach heaving at the pain. He heard the deadly swish of steel against scabbard as Fraser unsheathed his sword.

  But before that gleaming arc of steel could find flesh, an explosion shattered the room. Fraser flew back against the wall, crimson blossoming on his chest as he fell.

  Ian surged to his feet, stunned to see Emily standing an arm's length away, Fraser's smoking pistol in her hand, her face so pale he feared she would collapse.

  "Now you'll never know the truth..." Fraser sneered, even as the death rattle sounded in his throat. "The duke would think that a fitting... hell."

  Thick eyelids fluttered as his head fell back. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, the room still echoing with the sound of his fiendish mockery.