by Kruger, Mary
“What happened to your face, Miss Talbot?” he asked, as she poured him a cup of tea.
“I walked into a door. Terribly clumsy of me.” Her fingers brushed against his as she handed him the cup, and she pulled back, restraining herself from shuddering.
“You should be careful.” His eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to bore through her, and she busied herself with tidying the tea tray. Mercy, why did he have to look at her in such a way? “An attractive woman like you. I am surprised that I am the only gentleman here today.”
“Oh, but we’ve had callers already,” Amelia chattered. “Mrs. Harrison was by this morning, and Mr. Collins said he might call this afternoon.” Her cheeks dimpled. “And Mr. Brand has already been here, though that was to see Papa.”
“Brand?” Dee looked sharply up from his cup. “What did he want?”
“Why, I don’t know.” She frowned. “Does it matter?”
“It might.” He set the cup down on the pie crust table. “I must tell you, I don’t like the man.”
“But he is your cousin, sir.”
“And that means I know him. I don’t like the way he looks at you, Miss Talbot.”
“Me?” Rebecca said in surprise, feeling her cheeks color. For she knew quite well how Mr. Brand looked at her, and even now the memory made her feel warm.
“Yes. I do not trust him, and not just because I know him. There is something else.” He leaned forward. “What do you know of him?”
“Just what you do, sir, that he is a shipowner from Baltimore. More tea?”
“No. No.” He rose and stalked about the room, snapping his fingers. “He reminds me of someone, but I cannot think quite who—good God.” He stopped still. “The Raven.”
Rebecca nearly choked on her tea. “Yes, of course,” she managed to get out. “Did you not realize that?”
“No, how could I?”
“But I understand you encountered him in the past.”
Dee’s fingers went to his scar, and then dropped. “It was dark, and events happened fast,” he said, stiffly.
Rebecca picked up her embroidery. “Oh.”
“I made it my mission, then, to catch him.” His fists clenched and unclenched, and his eyes were distant. “And I nearly succeeded. But he blasted the hell—excuse me, ladies—out of the warship I was on. You must remember that. It was when the dastard held you captive.”
She looked up in surprise, remembering the Raven’s encounter with a British man of war. Remembering, too, her foreboding, and glad that Brendan hadn’t fallen to this man. “You were on that ship, sir?”
“Yes. And if I could have rescued you, I would have.” His eyes still held that burning, distant look. “He should pay for what he did.”
“He’s dead, sir,” she said, softly, and felt again the pain of that knowledge, fresh and newly sharp.
“Is he?”
“What do you mean?” Amelia asked.
“There can be no doubt,” Rebecca put in. “We had the news of the battle not long after we returned home.”
“But no one saw him. His body was never found, did you know that?”
Rebecca bent her head, concentrating fiercely on her stitching. Oh, yes, she knew that, and it had given her many a nightmare. Brendan was presumed drowned, lost in a watery grave. There had been no one to bless his departure, no one to say prayers over him. Except her. “I don’t know why you’re so concerned, sir.”
“Are you saying he’s the Raven?” Amelia said, at the same time.
“He isn’t!” Rebecca exclaimed.
“He could be. And you’d know, wouldn’t you?” He spun to face her. “You could identify him.”
“Funny, I don’t even think he looks much like the Raven anymore,” Amelia said into the stillness that followed. “I did at first, but the more I see him the more I can see ‘tis a superficial resemblance.”
“He’s really not like the Raven at all,” Rebecca said calmly, securing her needle in her fabric and rising. “I do hope you will excuse us, sir, but I need to see to supper.”
“What? Oh, of course.” Dee reached for his hat. “But, never fear, dear ladies. If he is the Raven, I shall protect you,” he said, and, executing a short bow, went out.
“Oh, Becky.” Amelia’s voice was glum. “I’m sorry I made you come down. But I do wish you could find someone suitable.”
“I’m quite content,” Rebecca said, smiling in spite of the fear fluttering inside her. Mr. Brand wasn’t the Raven. Of course he wasn’t. Resemblance aside, there were too many things against it. But... She shivered. But Lieutenant Dee was a strange man, and by what he had just said, vindictive. No matter if Mr. Brand were the Raven or not. He was in danger, and she, Rebecca, was the only one who could do anything about it.
Marcus pulled off the cravat he had tied so carefully hours before, and tossed it onto a chair. Hell of a day, he thought, idly scratching his chest as he stood by the window. Below him on the street, the lamplighter made his rounds, the glow of the lamps soft in the deepening twilight. A woman huddled in a hooded cloak, strange in this warmth, hurried by, briefly catching his eye. Strange. It almost looked like Rebecca.
Grimacing, he turned away from the window, this time shedding the finely-tailored coat. He was in bad case if every woman he saw reminded him of Rebecca. True it was that he’d lain in wait for her this morning; true that his rage at her father still burned. As he had been reminded quite forcefully this afternoon, however, he had other things to think about, and no business jeopardizing his goals. Except that to Marcus, Rebecca was one of his goals.
There was a knock on his door. “Yes?”
Mrs. Sally stepped into the room, frowning in disapproval. “There’s a young person here to see you, Mr. Brand.”
“A young person?”
“She is wearing a cloak that covers her face, and she will not give her name.” Mrs. Sally’s pale blue eyes were clouded with distress. “Really, Mr. Brand, I know that you are a charming man, but I cannot countenance such goings on in my house. If Mr. Sally were alive—”
“Easy, ma’am.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Be assured that I would never do anything Mr. Sally would disapprove.” Poor Mr. Sally must have led a dreadfully dull life.
Mrs. Sally’s face eased. “Of course. You are a gentleman, sir. But I do not like young women coming to the house like this. So forward.”
“I’ll see her and send her on her way,” he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. “Where is she?”
“In the parlor. You won’t let her come here again?”
“No, Mrs. Sally, I won’t.” Because he had enough complications in his life without some unknown woman adding more. He reached for his coat, started to shrug into it, and then laid it down again. Whoever the woman was, she’d come here uninvited. He was not going to go to any trouble for her.
Mrs. Sally’s parlor was illuminated by a single candle in a brass holder, shielded by a glass globe, when Marcus quietly opened the door. The dim light threw shadows over the wainscoted walls and the rosewood settee and chairs, and only faintly touched on a woman standing near the fireplace. The woman he had seen outside, he realized, his unease deepening. Danger. “You wish to see me?” he said, his voice cool.
The woman swung around from the plain paneled fireplace. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in—”
“Rebecca?” In two swift strides he crossed the room to her. “Good God, what are you doing here?”
“I had to come. Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not, but if you were seen—”
“‘Tis why I wore the cloak.” She laughed, a little sound of self-deprecation. “I probably attracted more attention with it, but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was.”
“What do you here?” he asked. In the last few moments he had somehow possessed himself of her hands, and he didn’t wish to let them go.
“I had to see you. To warn you.”
“Of what?”
“You may be in danger. Lieutenant Dee—you remember him?”
“Unfortunately, yes. What of him?”
“He thinks you’re the Raven.”
Marcus laughed. “Me? Whatever gave him that idea?”
“It’s not funny!” She pulled her hands free and stepped back, the hood slipping a little from her head. “He has a reason to want revenge, ‘twas the Raven who scarred his face. And, last year, he nearly caught the Raven when my sister and I were captives.”
“He did?”
“Yes, he was on a British man-of-war. Don’t you see?” She pushed at the hood, revealing her face at last. “If he thinks you’re the Raven he’ll stop at nothing—”
“What is that?” he interrupted.
“What?”
“That.” His fingers reached out to touch a dark spot on her face, and she flinched. “My God.”
“‘Tis nothing—”
“Who did this to you?” His voice was quiet, but with an edge that made her tense with wariness. Just so had she heard Brendan speak, at his most dangerous.
“It doesn’t signify—”
“Damn it, it does signify.” In the dim light, his eyes were a fiery blue. “Did Dee do this?”
“Mercy, no!” She stared at him. “Why would he?”
“Because he—never mind. Who did it?”
“No one. I walked into a door.”
“You did not.” He grasped her shoulders. “Tell me the truth, Rebecca, so that I may go after the bastard—”
“Would you?”
“Devil take it, of course I would!” he roared. “Whoever did this to you should be keelhauled.”
“‘Tis really nothing,” she said, staring up at him, feeling the ice that had encased her heart for the past year begin to melt. When was the last time someone had come to her defense? “And it’s not as if it’s the first time.”
“It was your father. My God. It was, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Flushing, she let her gaze drop, unable to meet his eyes for the shame flooding through her. And that, of course, made matters worse, because she encountered the open neck of his shirt, and the bronzed skin beneath. Dressed as he was, without his coat or cravat, he looked far more approachable than before, and more than ever like Brendan.
“Never mind what happened to me,” she said, impatiently. “What are you going to do about Lieutenant Dee?”
“Dee? Nothing.”
“But he thinks—”
“Dee and I grew up together,” he interrupted her. “I know how to handle him.”
Her gaze was searching. “If that is so, why would he think such a thing of you?”
He shrugged. “We were never fond of each other. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some relation between the Raven and us. My grandfather had holdings in Ireland.”
“Oh?” Her cheeks pinkened as she took his meaning. “Oh.”
“I don’t care about Dee,” he said, catching at her arm as she turned away. “Why did your father do this to you?”
“It matters not,” she said, dully.
“It does matter. Look at me, Rebecca. Look at me.” He nudged her chin up with his hand. “Your father and I had a talk today.”
“Oh?” Better he knew the worst about her now, before she came to care about him too much. It would hurt less that way. “I can imagine what he said.”
“Aye. A lot of nonsense. The man doesn’t know what a treasure he has.”
She stared at him. “Me?”
“Yes, lass, you,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
Startled, she pulled away. “What did you do that for?”
He was smiling, a warm, gentle smile that made her feel warm all over, and she realized for the first time that he had a dimple. “I wanted to.”
“Ooh!” She spun about, her back to him. “You believed everything he said, didn’t you? Everything you’ve heard from everyone. That I’m wanton, loose, a fallen woman—”
“No, Rebecca.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. She stayed still, unresponsive. “I make up my own mind about things and people.” His fingers were stroking the side of her neck now, and she bent her head in instinctive response. “I trust my own judgment. And what it’s telling me about you...”
“Yes?” she prompted through dry lips.
“Is that you are a very warm, and very attractive woman. And what’s past, is past.”
“You’re very generous.”
“No, lass. I’m very selfish.” And with that he turned her to him, the pressure on her shoulder gentle, but inexorable. His face was serious, intent, and his eyes—mercy! She knew well what that look in a man’s eyes meant. For her it had meant heaven, and hell, and she wasn’t sure if one were worth the other. Except that, somehow, she couldn’t break free.
His head was bent, his mouth a mere whisper away from hers. “There is fire in you,” he murmured.
Rebecca jerked back, memory flooding through her. Brendan’s voice, saying that exact same thing. Brendan, calling her “lass,” using words of the sea in ordinary conversation. Brendan was dead, she knew that, and yet... “Brendan?”
Chapter Nineteen
Marcus paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am sorry.” Rebecca turned away, her heart thudding sickly. “So sorry, but you look like him.”
“Who?”
“The Raven. Sometimes you act like him, and sometimes you sound so like him—”
“You loved him.”
“No! He was a pirate. But he was not as black as he’s been painted, and—”
“You loved him.”
Rebecca turned away. “It matters not,” she said, her voice dull.
“Aye, Rebecca. It matters not.”
She turned to look at him, her eyes wide and puzzled, those deep, sea-green eyes in which a man could drown. “You shouldn’t be here, lass. Time you were getting home.”
“I—yes, you’re right.” Hastily she pulled her hood over her head, hiding that glorious hair from his view. “I won’t come here again.”
“That’s just as well,” he agreed gravely. “I’ll see you home.”
“Oh, no! If we’re seen together—”
“‘Tis dark. No one will know us.” He paused as she stood there, biting her lips. “What is it, lass?”
“I can’t,” she whispered. “You’re too much like him.”
“The Raven is dead, lass,” he said, and saw her shoulders slump. Marcus Brand, however, was very much alive, and able to pursue whomever he wished.
“‘Tis late,” Rebecca said, breaking into his thoughts as she turned towards the door. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“Come, lass.” He caught her arm. “Don’t go like this. Let me see you home.”
“Well—”
“I’ll just get my coat.”
At that, her eyes flicked up at him. “Very well.”
“Wait right here. I’ll be down in a moment.” Touching her cheek with a fingertip, he went out, running up the stairs to his room to get his coat and hat. A gentleman such as Marcus Brand would never go out improperly attired. When he returned downstairs, however, it was to see the parlor door standing open, and Mrs. Sally locking the front door with a massive key.
“Why, there you are, Mr. Brand. I thought you’d gone out with the young woman,” she said.
He stopped on the bottom stair, unreasonably disappointed. “She’s gone?”
“Why, yes. When I heard the front door close, I came out to see what had happened. I hope you don’t think I was prying.”
“No, of course not, ma’am.”
“Is something wrong?” Her face was creased with concern. “Are you in trouble, Mr. Brand?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Notes from people, unsuitable visitors at all hours—.” Her hands fluttered in the air. “I really don’t know what Mr. Sally would do.”
Marcus bit back a smile. “Be at ease, ma’am. I am not in any kind of trouble.” At least
, not the kind she thought. “I’ll bid you good night,” he said, and bent over her hand. It had the desired result; her face cleared and she dimpled up at him, as flirtatious as a young girl. It made him smile, and that, lately, was rare enough.
Later, however, alone in his room, he stood again at his window, and his face was grim. He was, indeed, in trouble. Just what was he going to do about it? Nothing, for now. He turned away from the window with a shrug. Things would happen as they would.
And, across the street from the small, neat brick house, a man stepped from out of the shadows, and stared up at Marcus’s window for a long, long time.
The city was abuzz. The ship Hornet had returned from England, bearing with it dispatches for Sir Augustus Foster. Outside the President’s House, and across President’s Square, where the British legation was located, men gathered together, talking and speculating. Everyone knew the importance of the messages. If the British government had decided to ease its stand on neutral trade, allowing United States ships to go where they would, all would be well. If not, it could mean war.
Marcus strode along the stone sidewalk to the legation, walking stick swinging in his hand, cursing to himself as he stepped to avoid a cow that refused to budge from his path, for farm animals were allowed to roam freely in the capital. He, as much as anyone, needed to know what the dispatches contained. Nothing less than his future was at stake. He turned in at the gate, only to find his way suddenly blocked by a red-coated soldier holding a musket across his chest. “You!” the soldier spat.
“Jeremiah.” Marcus stepped back, leaning on the gold head of his walking stick and regarding the other man coolly. “Finally performing your duty, I see.”
Dee’s face grew dark. “I always do my duty, sir. And if that duty is to deal with you—”
“Indeed?” Marcus had taken out his quizzing glass and was studying Dee through it. “Is it your duty to accost peaceful gentlemen? Our countries are not at war yet.”
“It matters not. My duty is to protect the legation. And we, sir, have always been enemies.”
“Indeed.” Marcus’s voice was frosty, though he knew he’d best be careful. With the dark light of zeal in his eyes, Dee could be dangerous. “I have business here.”
