Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1)

by Skye, Christina

They rippled over his back, fighting their way across the proud muscles like angry dragons.

  Silver caught back a little moan, feeling the bite of those scars as if they pierced her own skin. “No…” She reached out, unable to face the thought of the pain he’d borne, unable to imagine who had put such marks upon him.

  “They marked me, you see. I am one of the Dey’s select guard. I have access to his court and even to his harem. Only a few men hold that privilege, I assure you.”

  “Luc, don’t.”

  He laughed roughly. “Still not enough? Then perhaps this will convince you.” His jaw tensed as he twisted the first two buttons of his breeches free. Dove-gray wool pooled low, settling into folds that revealed the wedge of an iron-hard stomach.

  And just above the opened breeches, two more fine lines of silver splayed out in neat rows.

  “That’s the punishment for disobedience in the bagnio, Silver. In Algeria they have men who specialize in use of the whip. It is their greatest pleasure, in fact, and they are true masters. Each strike takes a little more skin, making it that much harder for the wound to heal.” His voice hardened. “Making you wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to let go…”

  His fingers tightened as if at some dark memory, and then he jerked his breeches back to his waist. “I have killed men, Silver. I have seen them die at my feet and I have not blinked an eye. And I have been forced to do things…”

  His eyes went hard and unreadable.

  “So never ask me again why. Just go away from me and never look back. Because if you look back I might be following you. And next time, dear God, I might not be strong enough to turn away.”

  The candle guttered.

  Shadows twitched across the moire walls.

  Luc strode from the room and flung the door closed behind him.

  ~ ~ ~

  He went to his study. Usually it lulled him, the sight of all those leather volumes heavy with the wisdom of centuries.

  But tonight the books only mocked him.

  He straightened a pile of correspondence. He added water to a miniature potted rose in one curtained window. He brushed a speck of dust from the head of an exquisite Egyptian malachite sculpture of a cat.

  And then he prepared himself to die.

  ~ ~ ~

  Afterward, Luc was never certain how he came to be there. An hour later his hand was on her door without his conscious intent.

  And she was there before him, all silver and softness in the moonlight, all hope and magic to a man who had forgotten such things could actually exist.

  Scent drifted toward him. Lavender, rose, and sage.

  Her scent.

  What would he do after she was gone? How would he start to make himself hard again?

  Right now he wanted heat, not cold. He wanted her heat, wrapped all around him, her softness pressed to his pounding need.

  He almost moved then, almost forgot his promise and went to her. But at the final moment when sanity came near to breaking, when sweat touched his brow and his body ached with hunger, something stopped him.

  It was the feel of metal, cold and smooth beneath his fingers.

  The pistol was wedged in the satchel slung over his black cloak. It was the pistol he’d shot men with. The same pistol he might have to use tonight.

  Luc went very still, thinking about his past, sickened by all he’d seen and done. With the cold, clear light of reason he knew he could never cross the million invisible miles that stretched between them.

  He might as well have been dead to her.

  He took one last look, finding a deep, wordless joy in her peace. And then he swept up his cloak and hat and went out in search of death or revenge.

  Whichever came first.

  ~ ~ ~

  Far away in a London ballroom, a woman stood surrounded by eager admirers. Light flashed off shimmering jewels and gleaming silk.

  But India Delamere had no interest in beaus or dancing. Abruptly she turned away from her swains and flung herself out into the night beyond the laughter and the crowded ballroom.

  “India? Whatever is the matter with you, gel?”

  When the girl turned, her face was streaked with tears. “Luc’s in danger, Grandmama. Oh, I feel it so clearly this time. And here I am, wasting my hours in empty gaiety when I should be looking for him.”

  The Duchess of Cranford gripped her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Nonsense. Everything that can be done has been done. Your brother is gone! The best thing you can do is get on with your life.”

  “You’re wrong,” India said softly, her eyes fixed on the night. On something that only she could see. “He’s not dead. And somehow, somewhere, I’m going to find him, I swear it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Gasping, Silver shot upright in bed, her eyes dark with terror. She saw nothing to make her frightened. The room was silent, the candle long guttered.

  But terror knotted around her heart like a rope of gleaming black silk.

  Luc was in danger; she could feel it clearly.

  With trembling fingers she shoved back her hair and pushed to her feet. She understood so much about him now. She knew why he shunned his feelings and pushed everyone away. How would she ever forget the sight of the scars he carried on his back? Her heart twisted at the memory of those cold, cruel marks.

  And now he was throwing himself into more danger.

  Somehow she had to stop him.

  She was turning toward the door when Bram rushed in, his face white.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Luc? No, I haven’t. But—”

  “I had hoped I was wrong and he was still here with you.” The boy tugged at his hair. “I was reading in the library and lost to the world, or I would have tried to stop him.”

  “Bram, you’re not making sense. Tell me what’s happened!”

  “It’s Luc. He’s ridden out, swathed to the teeth in black,” the boy said grimly. “He had a satchel over one arm and a rifle slung behind his saddle.” He looked at Silver, his eyes anxious. “And he wasn’t riding slow or careful, Syl. He crashed off through the shrubbery like a man possessed, as if he didn’t care who noticed.”

  Silver remembered how he’d looked when he’d left her, his eyes hard and unreadable, his voice rough with hopelessness.

  So never again ask me why. Just go away from me and never look back.

  The fool. The stubborn, reckless fool!

  Silver fumbled for a candle, trying to stay calm, trying not to think of him huddled on some rise overlooking the grim stretch of the Norfolk road. “I expect he’s gone out to rob a coach, Bram. It’s his livelihood, after all, as he’s so fond of telling both of us.”

  The boy stared at her, his face lined with shock. “Don’t you care? What if he doesn’t come back? What if he dies out there on the heath!”

  “I care,” Silver said softly. “I care far too much. But there’s nothing we can do.” Her eyes were bleak. “Gather your things. We’re going back to Lavender Close.”

  ~ 26 ~

  Black night.

  Black trees.

  Black highway snaking over endless hills.

  Each one suited Luc’s fancy. He was in a wild mood, with a mind for desolation as he spurred his great horse over the ridge that overlooked the Norfolk road.

  At the crown of the hill he opened his satchel and checked his pistols, all the time trying not to think about Silver’s face as he’d left her.

  It was best this way. Best for both of them.

  Don’t ever look back, a hard voice warned.

  From the far side of the rise came the hollow clip-clop of hooves. A moment later Jonas’s face broke through the gloom.

  “Shouldn’t otta be here,” the rangy servant said harshly. “Not you. Not me. If I had half a grain of sense, I’d turn tail right now.” He glared at Luc. “But I reckon I don’t. So what’s the lay tonight, Blackwood?”

  Luc sat back in his saddle. “They’ll be coming from the south. He’s a ri
ch merchant from Yarmouth and he’ll be traveling with all his money beneath the seat of the carriage, so I’m informed. One guard riding in the back, and two pistols inside hidden in the wall.”

  Jonas shook his head. “I don’t like the smell of it. Too easy. What call has a man like that, wealthy as Croesus, to carry his guineas about with him? There’s a bad smell to it, if you ask me. It has all the feel of a trap.”

  Something cold crept up Luc’s spine, but he ignored it. “You must be getting too old for this line of work, Jonas. Next thing I know, you’ll be seeing spirits out there in the darkness.”

  “Aye, so I will, Luc Delamere. Spirits of highwaymen who died before their time,” the Scotsman added grimly.

  A faint veil of mist swirled about the heath as Luc eased his mask up over his face. From the far side of the hill came the muffled thunder of horses, eight in a team and moving fast. Luc let his fingers play over the reins, while excitement pounded through him.

  A heavily loaded traveling carriage burst into view.

  “Our merchant, I believe,” Luc said darkly. “And one man riding guard, just as we were told. My information has been correct so far.”

  Behind him Jonas snorted. “Too pat, that’s what I’m saying.”

  Luc laughed softly, trying to ignore a prickling sense of warning at his neck. “You begin to grumble like an old woman, Jonas. Pull up your mask and draw your pistol. Aye, it’s midnight and time for Blackwood to ride the heath once more!”

  Mist drifted in white waves around the boulders that Luc had rolled into the middle of the road some minutes before. They would be invisible to the coachman until he was nearly upon them.

  Only minutes to go, Luc thought. Again he felt the prick at his neck, an instinct that something was not as it should be.

  He bit back a curse, telling himself he was becoming as cowardly as Jonas. He was not about to turn back, however. His merchant was too well suited to be plucked. The man had stopped in every town between Norwich and King’s Lynn, bragging of the wealth he’d made as a dealer in black flesh, one of the cursed backers of the slave trade.

  Luc had tasted the horrors of slavery firsthand and this was one man he’d take a personal delight in robbing!

  Barely twenty feet from the boulders the coachman saw his danger and raised a shout. Mist swirled around Luc’s horse as he charged down to the still pitching coach, his gun leveled.

  With terse efficiency Jonas motioned the guard down from the back of the coach and onto the ground.

  At the same time Luc approached the window of the carriage. “Out of the coach, traveler!” he ordered gruffly. “And make it fast, lest you keep the Lord of Blackwood waiting!”

  The door creaked open. A tall figure wrapped in a greatcoat slipped from the gloom. His throat was covered by a thick muffler and his face nearly hidden beneath a hat.

  “I am desolate to disturb your peace, friend, but it’s my domain you invade and I must exact a toll.”

  The traveler shrugged and stepped down calmly.

  “What, no protests? No signs of alarm?”

  The man pulled back his coat, revealing broad shoulders and powerful thighs. Were it not for the fashionable cut of his clothing, Luc might have thought the fellow a pugilist of some sort.

  He frowned, his uneasiness increasing. “How many other passengers do you carry?”

  No answer. The merchant merely shrugged and crossed his arms atop his chest.

  Luc glanced around, checking to be sure there were no outriders set to appear from the hill behind them. But the night was silent except for the sigh of the wind and the lonely cry of a hawk somewhere in the darkness.

  Luc looked up at the coachman. “Throw down the weapon beside you!” The coachman cursed but did as he was told. A heavy musket cracked to the ground, making the horses dance skittishly.

  Luc felt the merchant’s eyes bore into his. He didn’t like the intensity of that gaze. There was something about it…

  Warily Luc slipped to the ground and made his way to the door of the coach. But he wasn’t careful enough.

  While he was still three feet from his goal, the traveler’s greatcoat flew to the ground and before Luc knew it a booted foot had crashed into his wrist and sent his pistol flying. Cursing, he jumped back and wrenched his rapier from its sheath. The merchant fell into a half-crouch, his face hidden in the shadow of the carriage.

  Luc’s eyes narrowed. There it was again, the sense of something not as it should be.

  “That was a grave mistake, my friend,” he growled. “One more move and you’ll feel the bite of my steel between your ribs.”

  The merchant only laughed. Again his foot slashed out. This time Luc barely managed to jump clear. Throwing himself low and to the left, he twisted, then pushed forward with a vicious thrust that left his blade at the merchant’s heart.

  But instead of the impassioned pleas that Luc expected, his victim merely threw off hat and muffler and laughed. “An exhilarating match, to be sure. But surely you wouldn’t hurt an old friend, would you?”

  That voice!

  Luc’s eyes went wide with shock as he recognized the strange cadence that spoke of long years in the East. Memory came flooding back to Luc with a rush, memories of other bouts beneath a Mediterranean moon while the deck of a square-rigger pitched beneath them.

  “Connor? Connor MacKinnon? Lord, is it really you?”

  “None other,” the traveler said. His broad shoulders and great height stood revealed for a moment as the moon slid from behind the clouds. “And I’ve come many miles in search of the notorious rogue known as Blackwood.”

  “It seems you’ve found him, you villain. So all that talk of ten bags of gold hidden beneath the seat was just a hum?”

  “I fear so,” the blonde-haired MacKinnon said smoothly. “What the devil was I to do? After your brief, tantalizing message in London, I had no way to reach you, so the simplest route was to let your greed bring you to me. I fashioned the story of a merchant flush with riches and hoped it would draw Blackwood from his lair. I’m delighted to see that it has.”

  Then the giant’s voice fell. “But I have news, something that couldn’t await your leisurely return to London. We must talk.”

  Luc frowned. “The heath is no place for conversation. Too many other highwaymen follow in my footsteps, I fear. Jonas,” he called, “send the coachman and guard about their business. Our traveler will have no more need of them this night.”

  In a few minutes the men were gone, only too happy to clamber back aboard the carriage and gallop into the mist.

  “As reckless as ever, I see,” Luc said to his friend. “Don’t you know I might have run you through?”

  “Not before I broke your arm, highwayman. Or perhaps smashed a leg or two.”

  “Ah, yes, those Oriental arts of yours. Damned useful on occasion, but not against my polished steel.”

  Connor MacKinnon merely smiled. “Someday we’ll put it to the test. But for now we’d best be on our way. I wouldn’t fancy explaining this conversation to a passing magistrate.”

  Luc laughed. “Nor would I. We’ll head west, but you’ll have to walk. My horse won’t bear the weight of both of us. You always were a great, hulking brute of a man, Connor MacKinnon.”

  “Walking will be a pleasure, but running even better. And I’ll keep pace with that horse of yours!” With that he set off on an easy lope over the mist-wrapped hills.

  Luc shook his head. The man was an enigma, to be sure. He always seemed to appear when least expected and most needed. He had trained in the secret martial arts of the Shao-lin in China, it was whispered, one of the few foreigners ever to receive admittance. There was also talk of years of physical training in the vast mountains to the far west of China.

  When asked directly, MacKinnon only smiled, never affirming or denying the rumors.

  Luc owed him his life, there was no question about that. He had managed to fight his way out of the Dey’s palace at Algiers, but
he wouldn’t have gotten far, not with Jonas’s half-delirious form slung over his shoulder.

  But MacKinnon had seen him coming and swept him inside his wagon filled with Chinese spices and tea, which he was conveying into the Dey’s palace.

  It had been a hair-raising two hours, with Luc and Jonas hidden beneath a mound of coarse canvas while the Dey’s men inspected their merchandise. Then MacKinnon had seen them out to safety, not once but three times that day, for when the Dey discovered that his prized ferenghi slave was missing, he had turned out the whole city to find him.

  But it hadn’t helped. By then Luc was in the harbor, safely hidden aboard one of the ships in Connor’s fleet.

  Yes, the man was an enigma. He relished being where one least expected him. Luc shook his head as Connor’s dark form disappeared at a lope over the hill. The man might very well beat him to Waldon Hall yet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Silver’s wound throbbed slightly as she climbed down from the gig she and Bram had borrowed. The rows of lavender glowed pale and luminous in the moonlight, and she filled her lungs with the clean, fresh scent, struck anew by the beauty of Lavender Close.

  But the sight of the neat flowering fields and the borders of alba and damask roses did not bring Silver the peace they usually did. Tonight there was an emptiness inside her, a pain and restlessness that Silver knew she could never escape.

  Bram touched her shoulder. “Syl, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She had, of course. She’d seen the long and empty days that stretched before her. She’d seen the pain and the restlessness that would be hers as she lived her life with nothing but ashes in her heart. “I — I’m fine, Bram,” she answered, trying not to think about a man with amber eyes. She squared her shoulders and started up the hill. “Let’s go find Tinker, shall we? I want to know just how much damage the villains have done since I’ve been gone.”

  He came again today.

  He asked a great many questions and even placed a sizable order for perfume. He seemed most sincere. Yes, he was very good.