"Us. That has a wonderfully permanent sound. Dare I hope that Emily has decided to sacrifice herself into marriage with the most notorious rakehell in Christendom?"
"Former rakehell. Now I am to be a husband. And father." He ghosted his hand over Lucy's tumbled curls.
"Yes," Lucy chirruped. "And we shall have a wedding and a vicar will have to come. And Uncle Ian will not be able to swear at him and throw him out the door, even though he very much likes to do that to vicars, I know."
Tony gave a shaky laugh. "I cannot wait to see that, Lucy! Ian Blackheath at Vicar Dobbins's mercy. By God, it will be rich! But before you indulge me in that pleasure, perhaps you would do me the honor of allowing me to escort you...?" He gestured toward the rear of the garden.
Ian's brow furrowed, lips curving down in a frown. "What the blazes?"
"I could not be certain what would happen when you rode out of here on my stallion, so I decided to make one last, desperate attempt to make you see reason."
"But I already have!"
"Emily, you have my sympathy. You are to marry the most stubborn man I've ever known." Gray's voice softened. "And the bravest."
"No, Tony. No more regarding that. It's over."
"For once in your benighted life just do what the blazes I ask you to!" Tony said, in affectionate exasperation.
Ian grimaced. "I suppose I'll have no peace until I do."
He lifted Lucy into his arms. Emily tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as Tony guided them through the garden gate and into a copse of trees that shuttered the area from the eyes of those in the house.
The dimness closed around Emily like a forest primeval, cool and ethereal, as if they had walked through the gate into another world.
And it was another world. Hidden among the trees was a score of riders, their capes billowing in the wind, everything about them screaming of courage and pride.
Pendragon's raiders. Ian's men. The men she had almost cost him. As if signaled by some unseen hand, they swept the plumed tricorns from their heads in a salute.
She released Ian's arm and went toward them, her eyes filled with regret. "Because of me, you might have died," she said softly.
A spindly man swung down from his horse, a bunch of flowers in the crook of his arm. "Because of you, Pendragon lives." He knelt before her, extending the blossoms. "For Pendragon's lady," he said, softly. "Our gratitude. Our loyalty. Unto death."
Ian stepped forward. Emily felt his hand close on her shoulder, felt in those strong fingers a trembling. "You are the finest men I have ever known," Ian said quietly. "I was honored to ride the highroads with you."
"Was?" A rumble of protest arose from the men as Tony came to face Ian.
"No, my friend. We have all discussed the events of the last few weeks, and we have decided unanimously that none of us will ride again unless you are astride Mordred before us."
"Curse you Tony. You saw what happened! I—"
"You learned the most important lesson of all, Ian." Tony said, pressing a wisp of silver cloth into his hand. "This will be a symbol forevermore of that lesson, my friend."
Ian opened the silver mask, identical to the one that had been torn by Atwood's pistol ball. He felt as if a fist had caught at his heart. There, on the shimmering fabric was the red dragon that had been Pendragon's symbol for so long, but entwined about the mythical beast was embroidered a perfect white rose.
Tony's voice was soft, like a benediction. "It is to remind you of everything you have to fight for."
The woodland was awash with emotion, fierce, moving.
Until a tiny indignant voice piped up. "Has anybody noticed that somebody in the Pendragon family hasn't gotten any presents here? What about Pendragon's daughter? I think that is very rude."
A roar of laughter rose from the raiders, Ian and Emily joining in.
"Pendragon's daughter?" Tony scooped the child up and set her on his horse, then swept a tricorne off the head of one of the men and put it on the little girl's curls. "By God, those accursed English had best run for safety when she chooses to go to battle!"
"She will have her own battles to fight one day," Ian said, drawing Emily into his embrace. "This battle for freedom is one that I shall help to win for her—and for my lady." His gaze caught Emily's held it. "We shall win it, Emily," he said softly. "And then I shall spend the rest of forever loving you."
Tears brimmed on her lashes, fell free. "Forever will not be nearly long enough, my lord Pendragon."
Emily raised her lips to Ian's, felt his mouth close over hers in the most fervent of promises, filling her heart with Pendragon's dreams.
Dreams of a new world, a new country.
A new beginning for all of them.
Preview The Raider’s Daughter
IRREPRESIBLE LUCY RETURNS!
Mistress of rebellion…
Lucy d’Autrecourt Blackheath, is liberty’s darling, embracing the fierce independence of her adopted father, the patriot raider, Pendragon. When a parcel arrives from England, unearthing a long-buried secret nothing can stop Lucy from pursuing the adventure she craves. Despite the love of her doting parents, she’s never forgotten the empty grave in England inscribed with her name, and an injustice waiting to be put right. Yet, as Lucy sails from Virginia, danger from her past is threatening everyone she loves.
An imperious earl…
Dominic St. Cyr, the fierce earl of Valcour, drove back the scandal attached to the St. Cyr name at the point of his sword and snatched Valcour’s estates from the brink of ruin. When a reckless American spitfire barrels into his duel in the middle of a gaming hell, he finds everything he’s worked for in peril. Ruthless Valcour has little choice but to force hoyden Lucy to wed him-- even though the defiant American despises him and his aristocratic world.
To set a heart free…
But as Lucy steps into Valcour’s mysterious world, she glimpses the man beneath the earl’s façade. Haunted by personal demons, Valcour hides a heart too tender, and secrets as painful as Lucy’s own. Can a patriot’s daughter enter the world revolution taught her to hate, and set Valcour’s heart free?
* * *
Lucinda d'Autrecourt Blackheath scaled the branches of the oak tree that rambled up the side of Blackheath Hall, oblivious to the limbs that tossed in the waning storm. The golden glow of her bedchamber window beckoned at a height the most hardened adventurer would have found dizzying on the best of days, and simply terrifying tonight, with the lightning dancing against the sky.
Lucy was soaked bone-deep, from the rags she had stitched to the sleeves of the scarlet regimental coat she wore, to the lead paint she had used to transform her winsome features into a ghastly mask. But no trace of fear or discomfort shone in her cornflower-blue eyes, only unabashed merriment and fierce satisfaction.
Tonight had been perfect. She laughed aloud, savoring the memory of three burly men cowering beneath their beds, terrified of the phantom that had risen up before them.
It had been almost too easy to convince the thick-skulled Baumgartens that she was a denizen of the Underworld. She'd appeared as one of the undead, come to stalk them as mercilessly as they had tormented Cotton Wells, a broken old man who had lost everything in the war—his beloved king, his fortune, and all three of his sons.
Throughout the War for Independence and during its aftermath, the Tories who remained in America were considered fair game, bears in a pit to be tortured at will. But Lucy couldn't tolerate the tyranny of Americans against the defeated loyalists any better than she had been able to tolerate the tyranny of the English king.
In spite of the love that had been lavished on her for the past twelve years by her adoring mother and adoptive father, Lucy remembered all too vividly the dark time in her own life, when she had been afraid and alone.
She brushed away thoughts of the child she had been and gripped the stone window ledge, pulling herself up to the level of her room. Beyond the glass she could see the fire on the grate, a
nd she couldn't wait to toast her chilled fingers above the blaze and clean off the paint that was dribbling in rivulets down her neck.
Bracing herself in the fork of a branch, Lucy tugged the length of rawhide she'd used to open the window countless times before. This time the pane wouldn't budge.
Damn the thing. She'd left it ajar when she'd slipped out hours before. Had one of the maids locked it?
The very thought was enough to fill Lucy with her first twinge of misgiving. Thunderation! It would be just like Tansy, the upstairs maid, to discover that the lumps beneath Lucy's coverlets were nothing but artistically arranged bolsters and announce it to the world.
Lucy's jaw set hard at the image of the girl tripping delightedly down to the drawing room, where Lucy's parents were entertaining a few remaining guests, then spilling out her discovery, a properly horrified expression on her sly face. If Tansy had frightened Lucy's mother, Lucy swore she'd wring the chit's neck.
The possibility of gentle Emily Blackheath's distress was enough to dampen Lucy's spirits as the rain had not. Muttering an oath she'd learned around the campfires of her father's soldiers, she jammed her boot against the wall and gave a mighty yank.
The window came open with such force she all but tumbled from the tree, her honey-gold curls straggling across her eyes. Gripping the window frame, she started to climb into the room.
Hands shot out and jerked her into the room as abruptly as a sinner being dragged down to hell.
She struggled for an instant before her boots landed square on the floor then she froze, peering up at her captor through the sodden lengths of her hair.
Lucy's gaze locked on the man who had struck terror into the hearts of English troops throughout the War for Independence. Pendragon, the Patriot raider who had darted like quicksilver through the English ranks, stood before her. His arms were crossed in the timeless attitude of parental displeasure, and he regarded his adopted daughter with eyes that were unaccustomedly stern, his mouth grim enough to sour new milk.
Considering the expression on Ian Blackheath's face, Lucy figured she should have spent the rest of the night in the tree.
"Why, Papa," she said, excruciatingly aware that her guileless expression was being undermined by the garish makeup covering her face, "what a surprise."
Ian snorted. "I would imagine so. All this time I thought you had excused yourself because you were bored with our chatter about John Wilkes's diplomatic mission to London. But no. You just slipped off to run wild through the night. Most fathers of twenty-year-old girls would question their daughters about lovers and trysts and elopements in such a case. But I suppose I can hardly hope you've been out trying to captivate some young buck."
"No, Papa. I've been out haunting."
Ian sighed. "Terrorizing the neighborhood again?"
"It was a very selective haunting this time, I promise. Those fish-headed Baumgarten bastards have been tormenting Cotton Wells for weeks, so I dressed up as one of his dead sons and told them I didn't appreciate their treatment of my father."
She could see the corner of Ian's mouth twitch, but he lowered his brows even more ominously to compensate.
"Lucy, you must stop flinging out the word 'bastard' as if it is no more potent than 'by your leave.' A young lady—"
Lucy sashayed to the washstand and wrapped her hair in a towel. "A young lady is supposed to mince about, hiding behind her fan and fainting at the first sign of danger. But every time I faint I bruise my tender places, and 'bastard' is a deliciously chewy sort of word. Quite perfect, in fact, when I'm in a temper."
She dampened the corner of another cloth and went to work scrubbing away her makeup. "I'm very sorry, Papa. I know what a horrible disappointment I am to you."
It was a long-cherished joke between father and daughter, one that brought a bark of laughter from Ian. He crossed the room with a limp caused by a British musket ball still lodged in his right hip—his personal barometer for foretelling tempests of two kinds, he always claimed: vagaries in the weather and those in his eldest daughter's formidable temper.
"Impertinent baggage," he said, taking the towel from her fingers and tipping her face up to the firelight the way he had when she was small. He began dabbing at her cheek. "I thought we had come to an agreement regarding these late-night adventures you are so fond of. Your mama worries dreadfully—"
"You didn't tell her?" Lucy demanded, alarmed. The fierce protectiveness both Lucy and Ian felt toward the woman who had made them a family was yet another trait they shared.
"No, I didn't tell her. Though if I had an ounce of sense, I'd drag you down to the drawing room by the scruff of your neck right now and show her what mischief you've been up to tonight. Unfortunately, that would be a trifle awkward at the moment, with John and Claree Wilkes still lingering about, singing the praises of my so charming, so talented daughter. I wonder what they would say if I told them about the more unconventional talents you possess, in addition to your magnificence on the pianoforte."
Ian grimaced and paced to the window, closing it against the rain. He peered toward the dark tangle of branches beyond the pane. "Your mother has begged me for years to saw off that damnable branch in an effort to keep you tucked up safe inside your room. The only reason I don't is because I know it wouldn't put a hitch in your escapades. You would just make some sort of ladder out of sheets and break your neck trying to climb down another way."
"What can you expect from the Raider's daughter?" Lucy asked with a toss of her head. "You know what Vicar Dobbins always sermonizes: The sins of the fathers will be visited on the sons. What's bred in the bones will come out in the blood."
"I had nothing to do with your breeding, Madame Impudence. You were dumped on my doorstep half grown. But all of Virginia holds me responsible for your disgraceful antics." The teasing was softened by the deep bond that shone in Ian's eyes. For just an instant, Lucy felt a rare twinge of sentimentality.
Even though the Blackheath cradle had been filled three times since Ian had married Lucy's mother twelve years before, Lucy had always known she had a special portion of her adoptive father's generous heart.
Lucy had always been astonished that she was so little like her beloved mother, yet had so many of the traits that belonged to the men who'd played the role of her father. From Alexander d'Autrecourt, the young English nobleman she barely remembered, Lucy had inherited the love of music that flowed like a fiery spell from her fingertips. While Ian Blackheath had bequeathed her a thirst for adventure, a restlessness of spirit, and a keen sense of loyalty and justice that got her into trouble more often than her mother's nerves could stand.
Lucy shrugged out of the soaked regimental coat and slipped a pistol from the waistband of her breeches, laying it on the chair. The instant Ian's eyes locked on the weapon and darkened, she regretted her action.
"Lucy, there are times I fear that you're going to put yourself in real danger. What if the Baumgartens hadn't been taken in by your masquerade? What if they had fired shots at you or given chase?"
"It would only have made it more amusing." Lucy sighed. "Oh, Papa. I can't explain it. When the war was going on, there was always an adventure. I could dash out to visit you when your troops were near and listen to the stories your men told around the campfire. But now, with everything peaceful, I get so jittery inside that I have to play abominable pranks just to stir things up. I can't help it. There's this fire in my blood that keeps pulsing and pulsing."
There was a twinge of sadness in Ian Blackheath's smile. "Maybe if you paid more attention to the beaux that hover around you like a honey pot, you would find the source of that fire."
"I'd find nothing but trouble," Lucy scoffed. "The love you and Mama share is wonderful. And maybe when I am old and gray and doddering about, I'd like it too. But the moment a woman slips a wedding ring on her finger, her life becomes so boring. I can hardly imagine some ox-brained husband letting me play ghost or ride in a storm. And besides, every stupid boy I kn
ow runs around puffing up with pride as if they are so much stronger and smarter than me when they're really absolute blockheads. Just the other day, Wesley Mabley criticized the way I was carrying the reins when all Virginia knows he's so cow-handed he's ruined the mouth of every horse in his father's stable. Of course, he was probably still mad because I pointed out the cards he had tucked beneath his lace at the Grays' house party three weeks ago."
Ian chuckled. "It's hard for a man to admit that a slip of a girl like you can beat him at every pastime there is—riding, shooting, gaming."
"You aren't like that, Papa. I've not met a man who can hold a candle to you. Perhaps if I do, I'll consider hearts and flowers. Until then I shall stick to playing ghost, thank you very much. Now, if you're finished lecturing, you can kiss me on the cheek and carry yourself off to Mama. I know you can't bear to spend ten minutes away from her when she's in a family way."
"Actually, I came to your chamber for a purpose other than helping you climb through the window, my dear. Tony Gray stopped by. He'd been to Williamsburg on some goose chase for his own brood of daughters, and he discovered this package waiting to be delivered to you. A mysterious package, I might add. I tried to peek inside it myself, but your mother rapped my knuckles with her fan and sent me to carry it upstairs."
For the first time Lucy noticed the parcel setting on the piecrust table. Pleasure set her a-tingle. "It's from England, Papa! Mama ordered the music I wanted, and it's finally come!"
Lucy raced over and tore open the wrappings as enthusiastically as a child. She hesitated, confused, when she discovered no music. But, rather, a sealed letter tucked atop a jumble of strange objects, the message penned in an unfamiliar hand.
A sliver of unease pierced Lucy's excitement. Prodded by some instinct she didn't understand, she turned away from the perceptive gaze of her father and held the missive to the light.
The package had been addressed to "Miss Lucinda Blackheath," but the name inscribed on the outside of this letter was "Jenny."
The Raider’s Bride Page 32
