He would never know if she truly loved him.
The way that he still loved her.
In spite of everything. In spite of all that had happened. In spite of grief and rage and betrayal.
Who would have believed that Ian Blackheath, scoundrel, would ever give his heart? Give it so completely that it would be lost to him forever?
The sound of the door creaking open made Ian shut his eyes tight. "I do not want to be disturbed. Leave me alone."
There was the tiniest sound of footsteps, a little voice saying softly, "I am very bad at doing what people tell me to do. I'm a most disobedient little girl."
"Lucy." Ian said her name, opening his eyes to see her, hesitating an arm's length from where he sat.
"The lady is all packed now," Lucy said, twisting her ribbon sash around her fingers. "She is going away."
"I... know." Ian swallowed hard. "That must make you very sad."
Lucy closed the space between them and climbed onto Ian's lap. His arms went around her instinctively, and he clung to the child as if she were the only harbor in a storm. "It does make me sad," she said, "but I was sad all the time before I came here. I was never ever happy. I used to think it was because people didn't 'preciate me enough or do what I told them. But it wasn't. It was because my mama didn't love me."
"Lucy, your mother had a... was..." Ian groped for words to explain to Lucy the tragedy that had been his sister, but the child stopped him, placing her fingers on his lips.
"I used to think she didn't love me because I was an atrociously wicked little girl, so ugly inside that nobody could love me. But now I know that's not true. You see, my mama... she thought you were the most despicable man in the whole world. But I don't think that. I think you are brave and good, just like the lady told me."
Claws of grief seemed to close off Ian's throat.
"I'm not brave, Lucy, and I'm assuredly not good."
"I think you are perfect. And I've decided that if my mama was wrong about you, then maybe... maybe she could have been wrong about me, too." She lowered her brows in fierce concentration. "Maybe I am not all dark and wicked inside me, after all."
"You are a wonderful little girl. You are everything that is open and honest, and—" Ian's voice broke. "And I love you, Lucy. So much."
"I love you, too." The child patted his cheek. "Uncle Ian, I know that you are very frightened to love anyone. I was, too. But even though the lady made a terrible mistake, you should still love her back. She won't be mean to you like everyone else. She'll love you forever and ever and not even care when you cut off horses' tails and steal dolls away."
Ian's jaw clenched. "It's too late, Lucy. I know it is hard to understand. Some things can't be fixed like you fixed my buttons."
Lucy sighed, such a sad little sigh. "That is what the lady said—that she was very bad and you can't ever forgive her. I was afraid you would get mad at me, too, someday, and you would send me away. But the lady said you never, ever would."
"I won't, angel. I swear it. But a little girl's mischief is different from adult mischief." Ian looked into Lucy's woebegone features. And he imagined the rest of Lucy's life, without Emily to hold her, to kiss her, to teach her so many, many things the child had never known.
The words that came from his mouth were pure torture. "Lucy, maybe you would rather go with the lady. I... I would understand if you did. I'm not very good with children. And I couldn't show you things, like how to sew. The lady loves you very much, I know."
"No, I want to stay with you. You will be very sad when the lady goes away, Uncle Ian. You'll be all lonely again and will need me to amuse you, though I'll miss the lady... oh, terrible bad."
Ian felt his eyes burn as the little girl's words reached right into his heart.
"When I was a very little girl," Lucy said meditatively, "I used to sing a song that made me feel all better, even when my mama was horrible hateful. It made me feel warm inside, even when I was crying. Would you like me to sing it to you?"
Ian couldn't speak. He only nodded, holding the little girl in his arms.
He closed his eyes as the child began to sing a melody so haunting it stole into his very soul. As he listened to that clear child's voice, every hope, every dream, Ian had ever dared to dream was spun out before his eyes. Everything bright and beautiful was captured in the melody; everything painful was washed away. His grief softened as if brushed by an angel's hand. His bitterness was sweetened.
The melody reached deep into his soul and pulsed there, around his own aching sense of loss.
The song held him in its hand so gently, so surely, that he didn't even feel the hot tears that trailed down his cheeks.
He didn't even sense the woman, who stood at the open doorway with her basket in her hand, her eyes wide with wonder. Her lips parted in both astonishment and resignation as she listened to the final notes of Jenny d'Autrecourt's Night Song fade away into silence.
Chapter 19
Emily clutched the handle of the basket as if it were the only thing keeping her from slipping off of a precipice—a yawning chasm of joy and disbelief, of confusion and fury and grief. It was as if she were reaching out to hold a miracle, in an agonizing rebirth that stunned her, paralyzed her.
Oh, God, she thought wildly, her eyes locked upon the man who sat with his dark head bent over the child who had fallen asleep in his arms. The child who had eased herself into the sweet release of slumber with the song that Alexander d'Autrecourt had written for his little daughter eight years ago.
The song that Emily had sung to the child every night in the tiny rooms in London, but had never been able to bring herself to sing in the barren, empty years since Jenny had been taken from her.
Taken.
Not by some unfeeling deity, not by some greedy fever that had snuffed out her life.
But stolen away...
Emily's hands shook. Oh, God, was it possible? Possible that this child cradled in Ian Blackheath's arms was her own Jenny? It seemed beyond fantastical. Absurd. Impossible.
But how else could the child have known that haunting melody?
Now you'll never know, Fraser had sneered at her, hinting at some secret tied to her past. The duke would think that a fitting hell.
The duke of Avonstea had not only destroyed her life and the life of his son. In his hatred and bitterness he had made Jenny a victim of his evil pride as well.
"Emily?"
The sound of Ian's voice jolted her, and she jerked her head up, staring into his face. The firelight played havoc with his features, setting them in a stark relief that showed the devastation she had wrought upon him and the fragile peace that had been the gift of Lucy's song.
She tried to form the words, to tell him what the song had revealed. She wanted to race to the child she had loved not once but twice, the child who'd been returned to her from the dead, as if by the very angels.
Your name is Jenny... Jenny... I am your mama....
Oh, God, how she wanted to awaken the little girl, whisper those words aloud.
But her gaze was fixed on Ian's face, the face of a lost soul led into the light again by the love in that little girl's eyes. A man, not gentle by nature, whose arms were curved with such tenderness about those small shoulders, whose cheeks were damp with tears Emily was certain he wasn't aware he had shed.
He had given everything during the night she had spent in his arms. Her betrayal had left him with nothing to fill the place in his heart that she had forced him to open.
Nothing except the adoration of the little girl whose eyes were filled with love and with mischief, sadness, and a very real understanding.
The child who would make certain Ian Blackheath was never again alone.
"So." His voice was soft, and Emily could sense the effect of the song on him, soothing the jagged edges of his pain. "You are leaving."
"Yes. I wanted to say good-bye."
"Lucy told me you had already said farewell."
&nbs
p; "Yes. I wanted to say good-bye to you, Ian, and ask you if your ribs are—are causing you any pain."
"Priam wrapped them. They'll heal in time."
Emily's eyes stung. If only other things might also heal as well. "I didn't want to leave without telling you how sorry I am," she said, "for all that happened."
"I'm sorry too."
For everything, Emily was certain. Sorry for that first kiss, for the laughter over Lucy's buttons. Sorry for tipping back Emily's bonnet in the garden to kiss her, and for calling her back when she had almost slipped out of the room the night she had come to him to make love.
Sorry she had ever touched his life.
"Where will you go now?" he asked. "What will you do?"
Emily shrugged, her eyes drinking in the sight of her daughter, terrified that if she touched the child, she would never be able to do what she must, would never be able to leave her.
"I will find some place where I can ply my needle. I have enough saved to get by."
"It's dangerous for a woman alone."
"I've been alone before, Ian. But I'm stronger this time. Because of you."
A flash of some emotion flamed in his eyes. Then he shuttered it away.
"Goodbye, Emily Rose," he said quietly. "In spite of everything that happened, I thank you for... this."
He laid his cheek against the golden curls of the child in his arms.
Emily's daughter.
The child who had been without love.
The child who would be Ian's salvation.
Gritting her teeth against the savage pain, Emily turned and walked out the door and out of the house. Ian's coach was waiting to take her to Williamsburg. From there, who knew where she would go.
She had run away before, fleeing England to escape her grief.
But where could she run to now? What could she hope for without Ian? Without her child?
"Emily?"
She turned at the sound of a voice and saw Tony Gray racing toward her from the stables. His eyes took in the basket and the waiting coach, and a stricken expression crossed his features.
"Emily, what the devil are you doing?"
"Leaving, Tony. You must have known I could never stay now."
"No! You can't leave! You don't understand. I just finished rifling through Fraser's belongings. I found a letter from that bastard of a duke who sired your husband. It seems that after Alexander's death, the duke wanted to drive you from the d'Autrecourts' lives forever, so he decided to do away with the only tangible reminder of your link with their noble family—your daughter. She didn't die. Avonstea gave her away to a sea captain who desperately wanted a little girl, but whose wife was barren. For God's sake, Emily, Lucy Dubbonet is really your child."
"I know."
Tony all but staggered back, stunned by the simple words.
"What the hell? How—"
"There was a melody her father wrote on the day of her birth. I sang it to her every night. Lucy was attempting to comfort Ian as I left, and... she sang that song, Tony. That melody that no one else had ever heard."
"My God, Emily. You can't leave! I'll make Ian see reason. I know that in spite of everything he's half crazed in love with you. Or if he won't be moved, then you should take the child with you. She's yours, Emily, by right."
"Tony, do you know how many times I've dreamed of having Jenny back again? How many times my arms have ached for her? I would lie awake night after night, picturing her smile, remembering the feel of her little hand in mine, so warm, so trusting. She was everything to me. The one good thing in my life when everything was going awry. She saved me from despair, Tony. If we give her the chance, she will save Ian, too."
"But... but you—"
"Promise me that you'll never tell him. I want to give him this gift."
Tony Gray raked his hand through his hair. "You are a most astonishing woman, Emily d'Autrecourt. A brave one. A... loving one. I only wish that things had turned out differently."
"I fell in love with a man who was everything I'd ever dreamed of. I shared one night with him. One magical night. And I found my daughter, Tony. Alive and well and beautiful and so... so wonderfully brave. There are only so many miracles out there, and I suppose I've used mine for a lifetime in this single week. But I'm glad of it. The only thing I would change is the pain that I left in Ian's eyes."
"He's a fool not to see how much he's losing."
"No. He's far richer than he was before. He has Lucy. And she'll never let him forget what it feels like to be alive. And Lucy has someone who will love her for exactly who she is. Someone who will never try to change her into something in the common way of little girls. My parents were duty-bound people, neck deep in piety. And I was never the daughter they desired. I know how much it will mean to Lucy to be able to be herself and never have to be afraid."
"And what about you, Emily? You came here to the colonies seeking... seeking something."
"Oh, I found it, Tony. Never doubt that. I just didn't get to keep it for very long."
With that, she climbed into the coach. Tony shut the door, leaned against it.
"You were the one who saved Ian," he said quietly. "Saved Lucy. God, it seems so damned unfair that—"
"Good-bye, Tony." She cut him off gently. "Be happy with your Nora, and take care of Ian for me. And Lucy. If I could write you sometimes to see... see how they fare, I..."
Her throat was swollen with tears, her eyes burning. In desperation she thumped on the coach roof, signaling the driver to whip up his horses.
The coach jolted into motion, and the jarring movement seemed to shatter Emily's heart. She huddled against the squabs, her mind filled with the ethereal strains of Jenny's Night Song as the vehicle carried her away from everything she had ever loved.
* * *
Ian was alone again, the silence of the room seeming to chafe at him, chastise him. Lucy had climbed down from his lap and slipped from the room after the lady had said good-bye, and Ian was certain that the child had stolen away somewhere to cry out her private grief. A grief that Lucy would not have wanted to hurt him.
You will be very sad when the lady goes away, the child had said. But how could a child understand this slow, painful severing of the love he had shared with Emily so briefly last night, the love that, in the space of a week, had seeped into his very soul, driving out everything that had gone before it.
But he had to kill it, had to obliterate it from his heart. It was the only way he could endure the pain she had left in him.
Ian Blackheath, the little boy whose father had never been able to love him. Ian, who had failed so miserably as a son that his father had all but murdered his mother in an effort to get another heir. Ian Blackheath, the youth who had been the terror of Hargrove's Boarding School, the boy whom all his masters had loathed. The man that boy had become, who had courted the scorn of everyone he met, because he had never been able to believe he was worthy to be loved.
To have believed for just one night, and to have that fragile hope shattered. To have been so close to dreams he'd never dared admit existed in the most secret places inside him...
It was the one thing Ian knew he would never recover from.
He would never know for certain whether the love in Emily d'Autrecourt's eyes had been real or just a reflection of his own desperate need for her.
Even though he had long since faced the fact that circumstances had forced Emily to carry messages to the British, there would always be that shadow, that inescapable questioning inside him.
That emptiness she had nearly filled.
"Mr. Ian?" Priam's voice made Ian straighten up. "Mr. Tony is here, insisting on seeing you."
"Tell him I'm not receiving anyone right now."
"I'd be happy to wait until tomorrow," Tony said, pushing past the servant. "Except that if I do, it will be too late."
"Too late?"
"Too late to stop Emily. Damn it, Ian you can't let her go"
Ian looked
away, his mouth compressing in a white line of pain. "Don't be fooled by a pair of beautiful eyes, the way that I was, Tony. You don't have the slightest idea what Emily d'Autrecourt is capable of."
"I think I do. She told me everything while we were riding back here last night."
"She told you that she gave Fraser that accursed doll that held my identity?"
"How could Emily have known what was in the doll, Ian?" Tony demanded. "And how could she have even suspected that you are Pendragon?"
"I was Pendragon. But no more. Do you have any idea what I almost revealed to Fraser for her sake, Tony? To save her—"
"Damn you, Ian, you stubborn accursed ass! If you had stopped feeling sorry for yourself long enough to look at her, you would have seen what the rest of us saw! Emily is already eaten alive with guilt. Think how desperate she must have been to take Fraser's offer of that millinery shop! Think about the grief, the pain, she had suffered. She was driven to the path she took, just as certainly as we were driven to follow the one we chose. She couldn't have known where it would lead her."
"Perhaps she couldn't. Should that matter? All I can think about is the gallows Fraser was intending to build for my men." Ian rubbed at his throbbing temple. "All I can think of is how close I came to..." He hesitated, unable to reveal that raw place that still throbbed inside him. Looking away from Tony, he finished his admission. "All I can think of is how close I came to being responsible for the death of every man who trusted me."
"And what stopped you from exposing their identities, you ox-headed oaf? Emily! She told you that she had betrayed you. Announced it in front of Fraser and Atwood. Why would she do such a thing? Those men held her captive, helpless. She had to know that Fraser would hold her accountable if she shattered the greatest weapon he held over you—your love for her."
Ian's mind whirled with the anguished words he had choked out in the cottage, the words that had filled Fraser's face with such eagerness, such triumph: How could I condemn my own men to death?... Oh, God, Emily Rose, how can I let them hurt you?
The Raider’s Bride Page 29
