But she was too innocent to understand just how superbly skilled his touch was — even when instinct made her sigh and press closer. Even when her mouth opened to him.
Abruptly, the highwayman pulled away, his lips a slash of dark against the darker night. “Rather enough, I think, mignonne.”
Why did he sound as if he’d been running? Silver wondered. “You must be very good at this sort of thing.” To her embarrassment Silver realized she sounded just as hoarse as he did.
One dark brow arched against the darkness. “What do you mean by ‘this sort of thing’?”
“Seducing innocent females, of course. Everyone in Kingsdon Cross speaks of your exploits.”
“Do they indeed?” The full lips curled. “I had no idea I was such a source of entertainment.”
Silver stared up at him, worrying her lip between her teeth.
“Disapproval, my sweet? I’m far beyond the effect of that, I assure you.”
“I don’t believe it. No matter what callousness you pretend.”
For a moment there was pain in the amber eyes that studied her — pain and something far darker. Before Silver could say what, it had vanished.
Coolly, the highwayman flicked the lace back from one sleeve and stepped away from her, bending to his rapier. “You should. You would trust me at your peril. Oh, no, do not think of me or dream of changing me. Too many other women have already tried and failed. So be warned. I guard my identity from all and none will ever see beyond this mask. To let me into your heart would be more dangerous than you could possibly imagine.”
A cold wind teased Silver’s neck. “I? Try to change you?” She gave an unsteady laugh. “I cannot even manage to control my own mind. Why would I try to control yours?”
“Stronger wills have tried,” he said softly. “And all have failed.”
“Not I. I shall never even see you again, my lord.”
Blackwood nodded gravely. “That would be most wise. But why do you term me so?”
“My lord?” Silver’s head crooked to one side as she studied him. “There is something about you — some power or ease of command that demands no lesser form of address.”
The highwayman offered her an exquisite bow. “Too great an encomium for the likes of me, Sunbeam. Blackwood’s only kingdom is the night, and his only power is his blade of steel. But I thank you for the compliment. It is fine, most fine.”
“You are welcome,” Silver said softly. She clutched the severed edges of her riding habit, feeling very formal in this barren waste of heathland ten miles from the nearest human dwelling.
“You had better go now. Those ruffians will have discovered that you’ve not fallen as they hoped.” Blackwood gave a short whistle, and his fleet-footed gelding trotted toward him, Silver’s mount following docilely behind.
“Ho, Diablo. You’ve made a conquest tonight, have you?” The great black horse snorted and pawed the ground.
Silver moved to her mount, suddenly urgent to be gone, to be safe in her bed before this dream could wear off.
“Let me help you, mignonne.” Cool fingers circled her waist and tossed her up into the saddle. Silver knew she should fear him. That she should hate him and shudder against his touch.
But she did not.
His fingers were strong. She would feel their imprint long after this night, she thought. “Then this is good-bye.”
He stood, a dark shadow, one hand upon her horse’s neck. “Perhaps, Sunbeam. Or perhaps we should say only godspeed.”
Silver blinked. There it was again, that hint of foreignness in his voice. Where had he learned such vowels? How many dark roads had he traveled to wear such hardness at brow and jaw?
“Godspeed, then. And — thank you,” she added, all in a rush.
His brow crooked. “Thank you? For a kiss?”
Silver’s cheeks flushed. “I meant for the rest. For saving me from those men.”
“Be more careful in the future. Such men are not to be toyed with.”
Her throat tightened at the rough concern in Blackwood’s voice. She tried not to think about how long it had been since someone beyond her family had cared about her safety. It felt pleasing.
Dangerously so.
She shook herself, marshaling her wayward thoughts. “I must go,” she blurted, turning her mount quickly.
Aye, she did have to go. Before she could ask a dozen breathless questions.
Because Silver knew clearly that she must never see him again. It would be dangerous beyond reason. She had come too deeply under Blackwood’s spell already.
No, she could ill afford another taste of his dark brand of magic.
The highwayman swung onto his horse with fluid grace. “I’ll check the road first. Wait until you hear my call.” He gave the low keening kee-lee of a kestrel. “That will mean all is well.”
“Why?” The question had come before she knew it. Instantly her fingers tightened on the reins, making the little mare stamp nervously. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter why you chose to help me.”
His eyes burned into her face. “Why? Because it pleases me, mignonne. Here in the middle of this desolate stretch of heath it pleases me greatly to be chivalrous and unselfish to a damsel in distress.” He gave a hard laugh. “Not that it will last. Do not count on my generosity on the morrow, for I am ruthless and without conscience. Any Norfolk traveler will tell you so,” he added grimly.
“I don’t believe it.” Silver’s voice was fierce. “I don’t know why, but the stories are not true. You’re not like that.”
“You ignore my warnings at your peril, innocent.”
Silver tossed her head. “Pooh!”
The highwayman turned, his face in shadow as he reined in his restless mount. “Ah, Sunbeam, you are very young. And how old you succeed in making me feel.” His voice hardened. “Wait here and make no sound. I shall not be long.”
He cast his long cloak up over one shoulder, the great horse stamping in anticipation. A moment later man and mount disappeared.
Silver felt as if she had catapulted headfirst into a dream as horse and rider faded soundlessly back into the night.
But the darkness was not nearly as black as the questions that haunted her a few moments later when cry of the kestrel signaled her safety. She plunged out of her hiding place, racing after him.
But by the time Silver reached the high road, her highwayman had vanished.
~ ~ ~
Over the hillside and half a valley away three sets of eyes measured the darkness. Angry and sullen, they waited for the drum of hooves and the sight of a woman’s white, frightened face.
They found neither.
Their anger grew as the wind clawed up gorse and sand around them and the cheap gin they had drunk sent a bitter ache through their heads.
So the little bitch had somehow eluded them. Damn, but there’d be hell to pay for their failure on the morrow!
“Never mind,” the man astride the swaybacked bay blustered. “She’ll take to the road again soon enough, and when she does she’ll not escape us. Then, by God, we’ll have everything from her that we ought!”
~ ~ ~
As the riders turned their mounts to the east, Silver St. Clair was snug in her bed. A pot of lavender scented the air and moonlight spilled over the polished floor beneath her window.
She had plants to prune and cuttings to set into the ground the next day. She had fragrance oils to check and orders to fill. Worst of all, she would somehow have to find more seeds to replace those she’d lost upon the heath.
But Silver was thinking of none of those things.
Instead she was thinking of a man with glinting amber eyes.
A man with lips that rivaled satin and hands that made her feel hot and dizzy and sweetly reckless…
Her dreams, just as she had feared, were reckless, fiery things. And a black-clad stranger with young-old eyes laughed at her in every one.
~ 2 ~
“Miss Silver, I sorely
hate to disturb you, but—”
“Not now, Tinker.”
Silver St. Clair stood small and slim in threadbare boy’s breeches and a voluminous white cambric shirt. The wind whipped her russet hair out in waves beneath a battered straw bonnet. It was twelve hours since she had returned from the heath. After a night of troubled dreams a morning of hard work had helped to make her feel calmer.
But it had not erased the memory of a pair of gleaming amber eyes.
“You know I must get these new bushes set in before they dry away to nothing. It ought to have been done yesterday.” Frowning, Silver disappeared behind a clump of lavender leaves.
Her leathery-faced servant frowned. “But, Miss Silver—”
“I am truly sorry, Tinker.” Her voice grew more harassed in spite of her efforts to conceal it. Tinker was nearly family, after all, and had been with the St. Clairs for years. “If it’s the Earl of Claydon again, tell him I’m not interested in selling Lavender Close Farm. Not for any price. And if it’s that greedy Samuel Collins asking for his money, tell him he’ll have it before the month’s end, just as we promised, and not a second before.”
A clump of lavender flew over her head, joining a pile at her back. “Two hundred pounds for French cuttings and half of them dead. A disgrace, that’s what it is!” Silver burrowed deeper into the foliage. “Whoever it is will just have to wait, Tinker.” There was a muffled sigh from beneath the purple blooms. “After this I’ll have to try to find a way to replace those lost seeds.”
~ ~ ~
Frowning, the old servant started up the slope to the wisteria-covered half-timbered cottage that served as Lavender Close Farm’s workshops and the St. Clair family home. Sir Charles Millbank had come looking for Miss Silver again. Tinker decided it was just as well that the villain refused to come out to the fields himself, for he’d been bothering Miss Silver far too often.
And if there was the devil to pay tomorrow, what did that matter? When Miss Silver was in this frame of mind, Tinker knew no amount of talking with her would do any good.
~ ~ ~
Two hours later Silver had finished her first quota of a dozen bushes. Her back was aching and her cheeks were flushed. When she stumbled out from beneath the plants, her hair was dusted with fine purple buds.
Two more weeks and they would be in full flower.
Six more weeks and it would be time to harvest and distill their fragrant oils. Only then would William St. Clair’s daughter know if her ambitious plans for Lavender Close Farm had succeeded or failed.
She slid to her knees and studied the well-turned soil, absently brushing a russet strand from her forehead. Tomorrow her nose would be sunburned and her hands covered with welts.
But her lavender would be set deep and Lavender Close would be one step closer to her father’s dreams for one hundred acres in full flower. Since her father’s death two years before, saving Lavender Close Farm was nearly all that seemed to matter to Silver.
Sighing, she tugged her hair into a knot and disappeared into the next row. When dirt trickled down the hill behind her, Silver didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry, Tinker, but I have two more rows to finish. If you still want to talk to me then, I’ll be glad to—”
“Syl?” The voice came low and hesitant just at her shoulder. “I don’t mean to be a bother.” A short cough. “But truly, I think this may be of help.”
“Bram?” Silver emerged abruptly, her shirt askew and her cheeks streaked with dirt. When she saw her twelve-year-old brother, her face lit with a smile. “Surely it’s not time for lunch already?”
“Time and an hour past, Syl.” Brandon Nathaniel St. Clair stood anxiously between two rows of lavender. His trousers were dusty and his jacket was torn at one sleeve, but his face wore a look of sublime happiness. “You were so busy that I didn’t want Tinker to disturb you. But, Syl, look at this.” He tugged a handful of crumpled plants from his front pocket. “I’ve been studying these all morning, and I think I finally know what’s wrong with them.”
Silver studied her brother fondly. “And what might that be, young genius?”
Her brother’s dusty cheeks flushed beet-red. “I wish you will not call me that, Syl. I am far from being a genius. It’s just that I seem to have a knack with plants.”
“A knack, is it?” Silver scoffed gently. “Is that what you call it when a person can make brown stems come alive overnight or hasten budding by nearly a fortnight? I don’t call that a knack, I call that a miracle.”
“It’s nothing of the sort,” her brother corrected gravely. His eyes narrowed as he fingered the bridge of his wire spectacles. “There are clear rules to it, after all. It’s connected with growth cycles and soil density. At least I think it is. I’m just beginning to work out some of the reasons.” He gestured with the clump of lavender sprigs. “Like these. They’re from that new bunch of French cuttings you got last week.”
“Don’t remind me. Dead, the half of them.”
Bram pushed his gold-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. “No, that’s just it, Syl,” he said eagerly. “I believe it’s actually the soil at fault. Come and see.”
Silver studied her brother’s face, noting his pallor. He was still too thin but fortunately he showed no signs of fatigue or illness. Considering that six months ago he had nearly died from a contagion of the lungs that left him fighting for every breath, his improvement was astonishing.
Yet Silver knew he was far from totally recovered. In fact, the doctor in Kingsdon Cross told her he might have breathing difficulty for the rest of his life.
Dampness and cold troubled him — in short the normal English climate was the worst thing possible.
But since Bram hated having his weakness pointed out, Silver resolutely ignored his slight wheeze as they walked to his “test field.”
Instead she slanted a guarded look at his pale, intent face and keen gray eyes. He had inherited all his father’s skill at botany and a great deal more discipline than their father had ever had. At only twelve years old he’d managed to solve any number of problems facing the farm, which he dearly loved. Perhaps that was why Silver was so determined to keep Lavender Close as a thriving concern.
It would be the boy’s only inheritance. Their father’s early death had left him nothing else.
“Over here, Syl.” Bram pointed to a narrow row of newly turned earth. “Look how much better these plants are doing.”
He was right. The lavender cuttings grown in fertile loam were full of buds, their leaves rich and glossy. Beside them, growing in denser soil, stood a row of drooping stalks with few buds.
“Dearest Bram, you are a wonder!” Silver gave her brother a tight hug. “We’ll have to put Tinker right on it. We might even be able to save the rest of those cuttings if we work fast!”
She caught her brother up and danced along the row, dust flying in every direction.
“Did I do well, Syl? Truly?”
“Any better and I shall have to retire and let you take over the management of this great wreck of a farm!”
The boy’s eyes widened, then crinkled as he realized his beloved sister was merely teasing him. “And what would you do in your retirement, Syl? Stroll about reciting poetry? Sketching?”
“And why not, stripling? I have been longing to be at my sketchbook for any number of weeks now. But with all my gentlemen callers dangling about…”
“What gentlemen callers?”
Her brow rose to a dramatic point. “Surely you have seen them hanging about.”
Bram couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Strange, but I’ve missed them. A great many, you say?”
“Oh, dozens of ‘em. Hundreds even,” Silver said with an airy wave.
“Perhaps the sight of you in those, er, unmentionables sent them all running away.”
Silver looked down at her dusty breeches. “Whatever is wrong with these, you wretch? My friends assure me they are quite the rage in London.”
“What friends?” Su
ddenly Bram turned serious, toying with his glasses as he always did when he was thinking hard. “And what beaus? Not here in Kingsdon Cross. If you were in London you would have a hundred suitors — and more invitations than you could even answer.”
“Bless you for your loyalty, Bram, but I doubt that. It’s youth and pliability and giddiness that men want.” For a wild moment Silver thought of the highwayman. Were those the things he cared about?
“You’re young,” her brother said stoutly, leaping to her defense. “And you’re beautiful — in your own special way, of course.”
Silver ruffled her brother’s dark hair. “My loyal, brave Bram. Your praise is sweet, even if it does leave your vision in doubt.”
“Not at all. Mother always said that you would grow up to be the real beauty of the family, not Jessica.” He pushed at his spectacles, sighing. “If only Father hadn’t died so suddenly. He did leave matters all in a muddle, didn’t he? And then hiding the formula for Millefleurs like that…” His voice trailed away as he kicked at the ground.
Millefleurs.
The very name sent rich memories flooding over Silver. It reminded her of warm nights laughing with her mother and father, keyed up with excitement while they tested the first oils of the season. She thought of her father’s face, tense with concentration as he blended and shook and measured.
Then the anxious silence, followed by her mother’s sigh of delight. “Wonderful, William. As always you have outdone yourself.”
Silver shivered, carried back to days of joy and laughter.
Gone now, just as the precious perfume was.
Half the titled women of Europe had possessed at least one crystal vial of Millefleurs. Its subtle scent promised youth, vitality, and beauty to all who wore it. The fragrance had made their father a wealthy man and Millefleurs a byword among the elite of England and France.
But William St. Clair had carried his secrets to the grave, it seemed. Despite their efforts Silver and Bram could never recover the proper formula. Their experiments had all failed dismally. Along with the dominant mix of lavender and roses, the blend must have included several obscure ingredients like narcissus or cinnamon or ginger — or perhaps even rare gum resins from Arabia. St. Clair had searched obsessively for rare ingredients to intensify his perfumes, and somewhere he must have found things that Silver and Bram did not know of.
Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) Page 3
