Ian stood up, turning away from Fraser's body and grabbing up the Englishman's sword. At any second he expected Fraser's soldiers to charge through the door. "Get behind me, Emily," Ian snapped. "The bastards will be coming—"
But at that instant, Ian's gaze fell upon Emily, her image branding itself forever in his mind. Her face was as pale as a shade, something ethereal, fragile, seeming to wisp about her until it seemed as if the merest touch would make her crumble. A thousand nightmares haunted her violet eyes. Fraser's death added yet another one.
Ian tore his gaze away from her, unable to bear the pain of seeing her face, so beautiful, so treacherous. And he knew in that moment that a pistol ball through his heart would have been far more merciful than enduring this moment.
"It may mean my own life," Atwood's voice. Quiet. So quiet as he struggled to his feet, still disoriented by the blow of the chair. "But by God, I'm glad you killed him. I'm glad that Fraser is dead. The soldiers outside are my men, Blackheath," the captain said. "They're loyal to me. Use me as a hostage to get Emily the blazes out of here."
"What the devil—"
"There is no other choice, man. Do what you have to do. Having seen what His Majesty's minions are capable of, I've little stomach for returning to the ranks."
Atwood's words died in the sound of a rush of hoofbeats. Ian swore, grabbing Atwood.
"The sword, damn it," Atwood urged. "Put the damned thing to use instead of waving it in the bloody air!" For the first time in his life, Ian hated the feel of the weapon in his hand, knew he had no choice but to make it seem that Atwood was in deadly peril.
Fury, confusion, and a sick despair warred inside Ian as he pressed the blade to Atwood's throat and burst out through the doorway, into the sunlight.
But the moment his eyes fixed upon the scene in the yard, Ian froze, stunned. Two groups of guards had been trussed together like a child's posy, gags stuffed into their mouths, their eyes wide with terror. And in the distance Ian could see other, similar clusters of men in scarlet regimentals.
A jolt of gratitude, of pride, ripped through Ian as a dozen horsemen seemed to melt out of the woods to join those finishing their task of binding up the soldiers.
Pendragon's raiders. Their capes streamed out behind them, their masks glowing in the fading light.
Ian had seen them in battle scores of times, had felt that sharp surge of satisfaction at what he and Tony had built together. A fighting force so swift, so daring, that none could defeat them.
But now, as Ian stared at the mass of prancing horses, saw the glint of the men's swords, the flash of courage in their bearing, his mind filled with other images he knew he would never forget.
A gallows with a row of ropes shining golden in the sun. Bodies of the men who had served Pendragon and the patriot cause so loyally, dangling, lifeless, a result of Ian's own betrayal.
A part of him died inside, because he knew in that instant that he would never ride among those men again, never lead them through the night to avenge wrongs done the innocent, never fuel the flames of that wondrous, astonishing new ideal that had grown here in this wild new land of freedom, of new beginnings....
Maybe it was better that way.
Hadn't Emily d'Autrecourt taught him that there could be no new beginnings for a man like him? He would only sully that precious, fragile dream.
Ian's eyes blurred. Then he stiffened, stunned, for at that moment, from the midst of those men, Mordred burst through, and the figure astride the stallion's back drove the breath from Ian's lungs.
He stared at his own reflection—Pendragon—the flowing cape exactly like the one about Ian's shoulders, the mask hiding a face that could only be Tony Gray's.
Tony, attempting to be as menacing as possible—and, by God, almost succeeding.
He bore down on Ian, the stallion racing, a pistol in his hand. Atwood gave a cry of disbelief as the soldier gaped at the figure before them.
"Atwood," Tony's voice was gravelly, threatening. "As usual, your men have proven little challenge to defeat. But I much doubt that you will be around when it comes time to release them. I full intend to shoot you where you stand for the insult you have done me!"
"The... insult?"
"Believing for even a moment that this arrogant popinjay, this womanizer and gambler, could be Pendragon! Pendragon!" Tony tightened his knees about Mordred, the stallion rearing, pawing the air like the hell-spawned mount he was supposed to be.
"We... we received a communication from... from Lemming Crane, assuring us that this man was... was you."
"Crane? That bumbling idiot! The man has as much wit as that stone there. It's a wonder he could find the hem of his mistress's petticoats when he wanted to bed her, let alone discover the identity of Pendragon! I am far taller than Blackheath, and my shoulders are twice as wide! How could that hell-raking cur ever hope to cut the dash that I do?" Tony thumped his chest with his fist.
"I... can see that now." Atwood's voice was quiet, low. "Blackheath is nothing like Pendragon."
"A tardy bit of insight, I'm afraid. Perhaps this time I should kill you, Atwood. Before, you were merely annoying, a trifle, like a bee buzzing in my ear. But to spread such slander as this, to announce to the world that Ian Blackheath is the patriot raider—that is beyond forgiving!"
"No one was privy to the information but Fraser and me," Atwood said. "And Fraser is dead."
There was grim satisfaction in the captain's voice, despite his obvious peril. Tony seemed taken aback.
"That may well be," Tony said, "but you still must have been distressing this lovely lady. The new milliner in town, are you not? A... Mrs. d'Autrecourt?"
"Y-yes. I—"
"I have some mending I might like to have done. There is a hole in my mask."
"Pendragon," Ian broke in, unable to bear Tony even speaking to the woman who, but for God's grace, might have caused Gray's death. "As astonishing as it seems, the truth is that the captain was reluctant to distress the lady. In fact it was his reluctance that turned the odds in our favor," Ian said, attempting to communicate his wishes to his friend.
A flicker of amazement brightened Tony's eyes. "Are you saying that I should spare Atwood's life?"
"Yes." Ian cleared his throat. "Considering Atwood's actions in the cottage, a permanent solution to the problem would be excessive. Just before you arrived, the captain was telling me that he was uncertain where his loyalties lay after all that happened here. I have a frigate sailing upon the next tide. If Captain Atwood were kept aboard it for a time, he might consider career options other than the king's service."
Atwood gaped at Ian. "A ship? You would... spare my life?"
Ian met the man's gaze levelly. "I have the feeling that in the end you would have done all in your power to spare mine. And the lady's."
Tony jerked his head at the two raiders nearest him. "Lancelot and Dinadan, if you could see to binding our friend, and delivering him aboard the Bon Chance?"
The men hastened to do just that. Ian watched in silence as they cantered away with Atwood, grateful to the captain who had been his enemy for so long.
"Mr. Blackheath." Tony's voice made Ian turn to face him. "It seems you have handled this situation with aplomb. Perhaps we should recruit you into our number."
"No, my lord Pendragon," Ian said, looking into the eyes of his friend. "Never have I seen the mask of Pendragon worn so bravely. Things are as they should be now. I shall never be fit to ride with a worthy leader like you."
"I think you deceive yourself." Tony's frown showed beneath the mask. "After all, you managed to rescue your ladylove even without our aid."
Ian turned his gaze to where Emily stood, her hair a tumble about her features, her eyes still, pulsing with pain and horror and a soul-deep weariness that made Ian knot his hands into fists to keep from going to her.
"She is not my lady." He forced himself to turn away from her. "Everyone knows that a man like me would never be so foolish as to
fall in love."
Chapter 18
The child sat on the bed, her eyes solemn, her face pale. In her arms was a pillow, a meager replacement for the doll she had so briefly been allowed to love. The doll that had shattered Emily's world, and Ian's. That had destroyed the fragile dream that Emily was certain the child had begun to cherish.
Emily forced herself to keep her face cheerful as possible, to hide from the little girl the agony that sliced through her far more savagely than Fraser's blade ever could have. "We both knew from the beginning that I would only stay for a little while," Emily said. "Now you will stay with your uncle Ian, who loves you very much."
"But I had decided to keep you," Lucy protested, her voice fogged with tears. "Both you and Uncle Ian. I never wanted to keep anybody else in my whole life."
"I know, sweeting. But we cannot keep everything we want. Sometimes, no matter how hard it is, Lucy love, we have to let go."
Emily swallowed the knot of grief in her throat and smoothed her hand over the girl's silken curls, memorizing the feel of them, so soft, beneath her hand. She didn't need to memorize Lucy's little face, for it was already imprinted forever in Emily's heart, captured like a twin miniature next to the image of Emily's own little daughter.
"I think Uncle Ian is very mean to make you go away!" Lucy cried, a catch in her defiant little voice.
"No, no, you mustn't think that. Your uncle is very brave, Lucy. And good." Emily thought of Ian's face, so tortured as he battled to save her.
"I think the note the soldier brought made him very angry," Lucy said. "He hit Mr. Gray, and then he rode away so I had to dump water on Mr. Gray and make him get up and stop Uncle Ian from committing sooeyside. My... my baby horse was very frightened."
"I'm sorry Cristofori was frightened. You were a very good girl to send Mr. Gray to help."
"Mr. Gray liked it very much that I got him all wet. I pinched him, too, and I was going to bite his finger next of all, if he didn't open his eyes up."
"You are a most resourceful little girl, Lucy. I'm very proud of you."
"It's very hard to understand how not to be naughty. Usually when I throw water, people get very angry. And once I bit my mama when she took away a puppy I had found, and she filled up my mouth with soap. I was very, very sick. But this time I didn't care if I had to eat soap. I didn't care if I got locked in a clothespress that was all dark for hours and hours and hours. You were in trouble, Uncle Ian said, and he was, too, and I..." She flushed. "I tried to get up on the mama horse to go find you, too. But she was very high. I scraped my elbow and cried."
Emily thought of Lucy struggling to ride to the rescue, and a swift wave of gratitude worked its way through her. She felt grateful not only that the child had not been hurt but also that she had opened her heart enough to love someone, to care enough about someone to take such a risk.
"Lady," the child said tentatively, "maybe if you 'pologized for what happened, Uncle Ian could forgive you like he forgave me when I cut off his buttons."
"There are some things that grown-ups can't forgive, Lucy."
"Oh." Lucy looked at her, subdued. "Did you take another lover? My mama did that sometimes, but then she cried copious tears all over the angry gentlemen, and they always took her upstairs to her bedroom. Maybe if you cried…”
Emily thought of the tears she had shed on the long ride from Fraser's cottage back to Blackheath Hall—silent tears that slid like slivers of glass down her cheeks as she rode her mare beside Tony Gray. She had told him everything, confided all that had happened.
Gray had been stone silent, then had said softly, "I'm sorry, Emily. I can't imagine the depth of pain that would drive a woman like you into the hands of a man like Fraser. And I can't imagine Ian ever being able to forget what has happened. It was so difficult for him to believe that you loved him. And now it will be impossible."
Impossible.
She had known that already. Known it from the instant she looked into Ian's eyes. Those crystal blue depths that had so beguiled her were flat, dead. The love and hope that had shone in them when Atwood brought him through the door had been killed, by Emily's own hand.
But she didn't regret having denied her love for him. No. She couldn't regret that, for it had kept Ian from betraying his men for her sake. It had saved him from making the one mistake for which he would never have forgiven himself.
"Lucy, I love your uncle very much, but I hurt him in ways that will never heal. You must understand that this was my fault, little one. Mine. He'll need you so much, Lucy, when I am gone."
Lucy's face clouded. "Maybe I will be very naughty, and he'll get angry with me and send me away, too."
"No, angel. Oh, no." Emily crossed to the bed, scooping the little girl into her arms. Lucy felt warm and precious and so very small. "Nothing you could do would make your uncle love you any less. You two will have wonderful times together. You'll forget all about me in time."
"I didn't forget about my papa. He was a sea captain, and he wanted me very much. He told me that the angels dropped me right into his hands." Lucy nibbled at her lower lip. "I try very hard to forget my mama, lady. Someday I won't even remember that she didn't love me at all. But, lady... I know I'll never ever forget you."
"Oh, Lucy." Emily choked back tears, holding the child tight, burying her face in Lucy's fragrant curls. She loved the child. Oh, God, the pain of it, the joy. She loved Lucy as much as she had loved her own little daughter. She adored the stubborn, belligerent, wonderful little girl in her arms.
And she was losing Lucy, just as she had lost her own little girl. Because of her own weakness. Her own stupidity. Because she deserved to lose Lucy for what she had done.
Her lips formed the words against the child's cheek, but she said nothing. How could she tell the child she loved her and then turn and walk away, leaving the child even more hurt and bewildered than she was already.
No. Better that Lucy and Ian be left to strengthen the bond that they had. Better that they find comfort in each other. While Emily went on alone.
After a moment the child pressed a kiss on Emily's cheek, her voice a tiny whisper in Emily's ear. "I love you, lady," Lucy said in a choked voice. "G'bye," she whispered then she scrambled out of Emily's arms and ran from the room.
* * *
Ian sat in his study, all light shut out by the window hangings, only the fire flickering in the grate. He leaned his face in his hand, listening to the silence, the loneliness seeming to suffocate him. The confrontation at the cottage still played in vivid images in his mind. He shuddered to think of what had almost happened, of how close he had come to selling his own soul and the souls of all the men he led, in order to save Emily d'Autrecourt's life.
The life of a faithless bitch who had lied to him. Deceived him from the first day she had stood on his doorstep, her eyes filled with righteous indignation over his treatment of Lucy. Deceived him even earlier, in the milliner's shop, when he had thought her an angel, far above his touch.
If only he had known they were two of a kind, he and this woman. Dark souls that had crushed what was good inside them. Dangerous liars, selfishly seeing to their own needs. Both ruthless in their own ways, desperate to reach their own ends.
"I would have done anything to get the doll back," she had said. "Even come to your bed."
His bed.
Ian fought back the wave of agony that ripped through him, and tried to kill the images of Emily beneath his hands, beneath his mouth, as he released that part of him no woman had ever touched, the place in his soul he had guarded for so long.
The place he should have kept locked away forever.
He'd been a fool to think that anything good could touch his life and change it forever.
No. His life had been changed forever. Bitterness gave way to an aching wonder at the memory of Lucy when she had raced out to meet him hours before, when they had first returned to Blackheath Hall. Her face had been tear-streaked as she buried it in his sh
irt, the child almost hysterical with relief.
"You didn't die, Uncle Ian! You didn't die!" the child had sobbed. "Promise now that you'll keep me forever!"
And he had promised her. Knowing that, no matter what had happened with Emily, Lucy was a treasure he would never part with. Lucy. As honest in her devilment as he and Emily had been secretive. Lucy, who had stolen away his heart, just as certainly as had the woman with the haunted violet eyes. But the woman had betrayed him.
There could be no joyous reunion between him and Emily. No promises of a future together.
A slender blade seemed to twist in Ian's chest, but he crushed the pain ruthlessly.
No. It would soon be over. Right now Emily was upstairs packing her things, preparing to leave.
He wondered what she would say to the child, and whether Lucy would hate him for sending the lady away. Perhaps, now that he had decided to keep Lucy, the child would decide that she didn't want an uncle who stomped about and cursed and knew nothing about children.
Maybe Lucy would decide that she would rather be off at school, rather be anywhere away from the man who had driven away her beloved lady.
Ian's fist knotted. And maybe, just maybe, Ian had the strength to force himself to remain in this chair, listening to the hushed sounds overhead as Emily prepared to walk out of his life forever. Maybe he could keep from going to her, from telling her...
Telling her what? Ian thought bitterly. That watching her leave was tearing his heart out, even though he knew that he should hate her?
Telling her that he blamed himself as well as her. That he was bastard enough to hold her responsible and to exact such a horrible price because of her dishonesty, when he had been dishonest himself?
How could he admit to her that it was not her treachery with the doll or even his own vulnerability that had destroyed him, but rather the fact that a woman who had seemed like an angel had come to his bed, shared his pain, and made him believe. Believe in loving, in light, in tomorrow. And that now, he would never know for certain why she had walked down the hall to his room. Why she had pressed those soft lips against his.
The Raider’s Bride Page 28
