The Raider’s Bride

by Kimberly Cates

  What had it cost her to tell the truth? What might it have cost her if Fraser had gotten his blade against that velvety skin? But did that change anything? Did it change the barren spaces in his gut?

  "It's over, Tony. Every time I looked at her, I would see my own weakness. I would never be able to forget how close I came to betraying—"

  "You're a liar, Blackheath. What you can't forget is how close you came to believing that she loved you. How much you wanted her to."

  Ian bolted from his chair, fists knotted. "Close your mouth, Tony. I won't hear another word."

  "She does love you, you stubborn bastard! Probably more than you deserve!"

  "And tell me, Tony, just how am I supposed to believe that? She came to my house searching for that infernal doll. She came to my bed—" He swore savagely.

  "She came to your bed because she loved you."

  "How could I ever be certain, Tony? How could I ever know?"

  "Tell me, Ian, what would it take to prove to you that the woman loves you? What price would you demand for her mistake? Would it satisfy your thirst for justice if she sacrificed her own child to you in payment for what she had done?"

  "Her child is dead."

  "No. Her child is alive. Lucy Dubbonet is Jenny d'Autrecourt. Emily's daughter."

  Ian reeled in disbelief. "You lie. That is impossible."

  "Is it?" Tony removed a letter from his pocket and jammed it against Ian's chest. Ian took it as if it were a living thing, his eyes scanning the script—a note from one Sir Jedediah Whitley, revealing the information he had recently heard at the deathbed of the d'Autrecourt butler.

  The English knight had been searching for Alexander d'Autrecourt's missing widow for over a year and according to Fraser's carefully transcribed notes, had come dangerously close to finding her. So close, that the duke had enlisted his friend Stirling Fraser, to come up with a permanent solution to the difficulty before Emily discovered the truth—that her daughter had been stolen.

  Sick rage rushed through Ian's veins. "Emily's daughter is alive. Those bastards! By God, if d'Autrecourt wasn't dead, I would—" Ian bit off the words, steeling himself against the outrage pulsing through him. "Still, that doesn't prove that my Lucy is Emily's lost child."

  "Do you remember Emily speaking of the song she sang to her child? The one no one else had ever heard? The child was singing it when Emily came to tell you good-bye."

  Ian closed his eyes. The memory of Lucy's piping voice weaving that most magical of melodies wrapped crushing fingers of guilt about his heart. The memory of Emily's eyes, so stricken as she walked away, even though she knew—she had to know—that the child was her own beloved daughter.

  "Why?" Ian breathed hoarsely. "Why would she leave the girl, when I know how desperately she loved her?"

  "Why do you think, you stubborn son of a bitch? She left the child with you because she didn't want you to be alone. She left the child with you, knowing that Lucy would save you from yourself, give you a reason for living. She left the child because she loved you so damned much that she was willing to sacrifice everything for you."

  The words should have brought overwhelming joy. Instead Ian felt an agony so profound that his knees all but buckled with the weight of it. He pictured Emily's face during their loving, felt the whisper of her touch, the sweet seeking of her lips. "No," he breathed, battling to beat down his raging emotions. "No."

  "What the devil do you mean, no? What other possible reason could she have had for leaving the child in your care?"

  "My care? Surely that must be it. With Fraser dead, Emily has nothing. No prospects. Doubtless she would not want to carry the child off into an uncertain future when I would be able to raise her in a manner befitting a princess."

  Never had Ian seen Tony Gray's face go so still, his eyes cold and filled with disgust.

  "Is that what you think this is about? Hair ribbons and jewels and everything your coin can buy? Emily knows better than anyone that you cannot place a price value on love." Gray's face was white, a muscle in his jaw ticking ominously. "I was wrong about you, Ian," he said in a low voice. "You don't deserve Emily's love. But does she deserve to be deprived of her daughter because of your selfishness and stupidity? Does Lucy deserve to be deprived of her mother because you have chosen to deaden your heart? Think about that, Ian, while the coach is carrying Emily away."

  * * *

  Emily closed her eyes, the swaying of the coach reminding her with poignant longing of countless dark nights alone in the shabby rooms in London when she had rocked her little daughter. How many times had she left her bed and stolen over to Jenny's cradle near the warmth of the hearth? How many times had she picked up the sleeping infant, cradling her, crooning to her, savoring Jenny's precious weight, the miraculous warmth and wonder of her contented little sighs as that tousled golden head nestled against her breasts?

  She had marveled over Jenny's tiny, perfect hands that curled instinctively into the loose fall of Emily's hair, as if to hold on forever. She had been enchanted by the bow shape of the child's lips, the rosy blush of her round little cheeks. And Emily hadn't cared that Alexander was off gaming with his friends or even if he was with some woman, trying to spare his wife the conjugal duties that embarrassed them both. The pain of her own guilt, her own sense of failure had dulled, seeping into a warm golden glow as Jenny rooted against her so trustingly. And Emily had known that no matter what the cost, she could never regret having married Alexander, for their union had resulted in their beautiful, winsome child.

  The coach jolted over a rut, and Emily wrapped her arms tight against her ribs, aching to hold that child again. And she battled the emotions that were only now beginning to seep into her consciousness. But her fury at the duke of Avonstea's vile deception was already paling to insignificance in comparison with the memory of Lucy's haunting stories of the barren life she had suffered in the years after she was stolen away from England.

  What damage had the cruel duke done to her little daughter when he cast the child aside with no more care than he would have for a fan that did not suit his favorite waistcoat? What had it been like for Emily's cherished little girl to be ripped away from everything she had ever known—her home, her few beloved playthings, and the mother who had spent every waking hour cocooning her in love?

  Could anything have been more devastating than being torn away from that love and hurled into the grasp of a woman who didn't want her, who was jealous and spiteful and cruel? Who made the child believe that she was wicked...

  How savagely had that woman crippled the little girl who had been cradled on Ian's lap, her eyes huge with secret sorrow, her voice tremulous but so beautiful, so clear, like that of an angel drifting down to comfort them from heaven?

  "Ian will take care of her," Emily whispered, feeling as if her heart were being ripped from her chest. "I know he will. And she... she will take care of him."

  A choked sob ripped at her throat, and she crushed it ruthlessly, certain that if she allowed herself to cry, she would never stop.

  No, this was the way things had to be. The only possible way. Best for Ian. And for Lucy. She would have someone who adored her, someone who needed her desperately. Someone who could give her security, treat her like the gift that she was. And Ian... Ian would heal....

  Oh, God, please let him heal, Emily thought, remembering the devastation she had seen in his eyes.

  With a suddenness that all but flung Emily to the floor of the coach, the vehicle swerved.

  "Damned lunatic!" she heard the coachman roar as the coach shuddered to a halt. "What the devil—Oh, sir!"

  Wild hope shivered through Emily as she moved closer to the window and caught a glimpse of a horse, its rider obscured. But the hope died when she saw that it was not Ian's stallion, but rather the mount belonging to Tony Gray.

  Tony. Doubtless come to make one last attempt to persuade her to stay, when there was nothing left for her here.

  She dashed the
tears from her eyes, resolve striking through her as the door flew open.

  Emily's heart froze as she stared at the visage framed in the doorway—the tousled dark hair, the face as tormented as that of the god Cupid painted on the wall of the chambre d'amour, and as filled with some emotion she couldn't name—an emotion so fierce, so primal, that she felt her hands go numb. Was it love? Oh, God, she thought with almost savage prayer, please let it be love...

  But as he grasped her arms and dragged her from the coach, his words quelled the wild pulsing of hope inside her.

  "Damn it, Emily, you little fool! Why didn't you tell me Lucy was your child?"

  Emily was grateful for his hands shoring her up. She felt as brittle as a sheen of ice on a pond kissed with winter’s first chill. She shivered, tipping her chin up to meet the tempestuous blue of Ian's eyes with her own.

  "Tony had no right to tell you that." She struggled to think up a plausible lie, wanting only to escape, to have done with the agony slicing through her. "There is no proof that Lucy is my child. No way of—"

  "The song, blast you! Emily, the song Lucy sang for me. That was the Night Song you told me about."

  She looked away, trying to be strong. "Ian, any number of things might have happened. I might have sung it to Lucy in the garden and been overheard without even realizing it. Or I—"

  "Don't lie to me!" His hands tightened. "Damn it, did you really think I would just let you walk away? Did you think for a moment what the truth would mean to Lucy? To know that Celestia wasn't really her mother? To know that she has a mother who adores her?"

  The words gashed Emily's spirit like jagged stones. "It might hurt her even more deeply to know the truth. She has you, now, Ian, to love her."

  "Damn you to hell, woman, you owe Lucy the truth."

  "I can't tell her! I'd break down crying and frighten her. I won't do it, Ian. I can't."

  "Then I will."

  "And then what?" Emily cried. "Have you thought about that?" She tried to pull away, but Ian's hands were bruising manacles about her wrists. "What happens after we tell Lucy that I am her mother?"

  "I don't know," Ian snapped, his eyes darkening with anguish. "I don't know. I—Son of a bitch, I don't know anything anymore!"

  With a furious oath, he lifted her up on Tony's stallion and mounted behind her. Emily almost sobbed at the feel of his body pressed tight behind her, the hard wall of his chest against her back, his thighs curved beneath hers, the steely prison of his arms around her as he spurred the horse to a breakneck gallop.

  She let the tears sear her cheeks as she thought of how differently she had hoped things might be in those first moments after she saw Ian's beloved face through the coach window.

  She closed her eyes, picturing Lucy's small face, the thought of what she must reveal to the little girl filling her with dread and hope.

  Hope mingled with the agony of knowing that this was the last time she would ever feel Ian Blackheath's arms around her, feel the precious heat of him, the strength of him, taste the recklessness, the danger, that she now knew was just a disguise for what really pulsed beneath that hard body, behind those fathomless blue eyes.

  The stark emotion called despair.

  Chapter 20

  Emily's throat constricted as she walked into the sunlit garden, the rainbow colors spilling in riotous profusion all about her, blurring before her eyes so badly that she nearly stumbled. Ian's hand was clamped fiercely about her own, his hard palm and long fingers engulfing hers as if he feared even now that she would run away, when all she wanted was to stay with him forever.

  Oh, God, what was going to happen? The question thrummed inside Emily relentlessly. What would Lucy say? What would she do when she was told... told that she had been stolen away? And that, by God's own miracle, she had been found?

  Emily herself could scarce believe it. How would a child ever begin to understand?

  Emily's throat ached from unshed tears, Priam's words of moments before echoing in her mind.

  "The poor little lamb is in the garden," the servant had told them, with a heavy sigh. "Cook's been out there three times, tryin' to tempt her with sweets, and the housemaids, they been hovering around, beggin' her to play that pianoforte for them whilst they clean. Samuel, the groom, he even come in and asked her if she wanted to see the colt she gave that outlandish name to, but the child wouldn't hear of it. She just sits in the garden cryin' over those scissors the kind lady gave her."

  Priam's words had wrenched at Emily, and she had seen Ian's own features tighten. But he had only quickened his step, leading her even faster out into the fragrant bower bursting with blossoms.

  Emily swiped at her eyes to clear them, and her breath caught as she saw the forlorn little figure in rose-pink satin, sniffling against the unfeeling stone bench. Lucy's face was buried against her crossed arms, those small shoulders that could be squared so regally shaking with broken sobs as she struggled to squeeze the melody of the Night Song through her lips.

  Unable to bear the pain of it, Emily slammed to a halt, even Ian's strength unable to urge her forward. His gaze slashed to her face, and she saw the reflection of her own torment in his eyes. He released her hand, allowing her to draw out of sight, attempt to compose herself, so as not to frighten the little girl.

  Emily's hand clenched, as if she were attempting to hold in the feel of Ian's callused palm cupped about hers. As if she were trying to catch that quicksilver will-o'-the-wisp that was hope.

  Face contorting with emotion, Ian turned away from her and went to the child. For an instant he seemed to hesitate. Then he swore softly and scooped Lucy up into his arms. The child nuzzled close against his chest, totally unaware of Emily standing, as if frozen, behind a statue.

  "U-Uncle Ian," Lucy choked out, her fingers locked about the scissors Emily had given her. "I—I didn't want you to see me... all weepy and sad. Knew that you... would feel sorry. But I can't help it. I miss the lady so terrible it hurts inside, worse even than... than when my papa sinked down into the sea."

  Emily saw Ian's face twist with anguish, saw him battle to keep his voice soft, soothing. "Hush, moppet, hush," Ian soothed her, rocking the little girl gently, stroking her hair. And Emily was moved to tears by the tenderness in him as he comforted the child. His eyes caught Emily's for an instant, and she saw her own fears for the child in his face before he forced his gaze away.

  "Lucy, what would you say if I told you that your papa—your real papa—was not a sea captain at all?" Ian asked in a voice rough-edged with his own jagged emotions.

  "I would say... that was a silly story."

  "What would you say if I told you that your papa was a composer. A musician far away in England."

  "A musician?" Lucy stilled for a moment. "A very good one or one who made people's ears burst?"

  "I'm only familiar with one of his songs. It is the most beautiful melody I've ever heard. You were the one who sang it for me just a few hours ago."

  Lucy lifted her face, and Emily glimpsed confusion, irritation, and a fragile kind of hope in her cornflower blue eyes. "My Night Song?"

  "Yes. Will you let me tell you a story about your Night Song, Lucy love?" Ian traced the pale curve of Lucy's tear-streaked cheek.

  "I... suppose that would be better than sitting here... sniffling and getting my sleeves all wet," Lucy allowed with a hiccup.

  Ian sank down onto the bench and cuddled the child close, and Emily wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. Did he fear this might be the last time he ever spent with the child in his arms?

  "Once upon a time," he began, his voice heartbreakingly awkward, "there was a very beautiful, very kind lady who had a baby she loved more than anything in the world. Her husband was a musician, and they were very poor, but the beautiful lady felt rich beyond imagining whenever she held her little girl...."

  Emily stood in the shadows, listening to the tale Ian spun in that deep, beloved voice. She watched as Lucy's expression sh
ifted from sorrow, to astonishment, from outrage to reluctant enchantment.

  But when Ian spoke of the child being taken away from her mama's arms, Lucy stiffened, her eyes glittering with tears again.

  "This is a very sad story," she complained fiercely. "I don't want to hear any more."

  "But, Lucy love, it has the happiest ending you can imagine. I promise you," Ian coaxed her, his own face reflecting pain beyond bearing. "It is so astonishing you'll scarce believe it."

  She thrust her lower lip. "It had better be very happy indeed, for I'm already detestable sad."

  "What would you say if I told you that the mama found her little girl?"

  "I would say that it was a very bad story. That could never ever happen."

  "But it did happen," Ian said. "You see, the mama never knew that the evil duke had sent her child away," he finished. "Until one day she came down the sweeping stairs of a grand plantation house far across the ocean and heard a little girl singing that very song. Her Night Song."

  Emily trembled as she saw Lucy lift her face to Ian's, her features a study in indignation. "If you think that it is—is amusing to tease me so, you're wrong! I used to make up stories all the time," Lucy said. "I liked to pretend that my mama wasn't really my mama, that I was a princess who got stolen away and put in the house of a wicked witch." Lucy's lips quivered. "But I knew that was impossible, and you are terrible mean to say it is real."

  "No, Lucy. It... it was real." Emily said, stepping out of the shadows.

  "Lady!" Lucy started to launch herself from her seat. Then suddenly, as if beset by too many disappointments, the little girl shrank back against her uncle's chest.

  "Lucy," Emily said, coming toward the child, "every night in London I held you, rocked you to sleep while I sang that song. When I had to leave you with the d'Autrecourts, I told you to sing the Night Song to yourself until I could come for you." Her voice broke. "And you did sing it, sweeting. You did."