Night Shadow

by Catherine Coulter

  CATHERINE COULTER

  Night Shadow

  To Frances Perine

  Thank you for the many years of

  support and friendship.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Knight pulled back and came up onto his knees. He…

  One

  It was eight o’clock on a rainy Thursday evening. Knight…

  Two

  Where the devil was she? It was ten o’clock in…

  Three

  Arnold Damson, brother-in-law of the late Tristan Winthrop, stood on…

  Four

  “Yes’m. We’re friends of Lily Tremaine, yer brother’s little gal.…

  Five

  Knight was pleasantly relaxed. He leaned his head back against…

  Six

  Knight stretched his legs out to the fire, cupped his…

  Seven

  Boy had never been in London. He felt instantly at…

  Eight

  Like the previous day, Sunday morning continued beautifully mild, the…

  Nine

  Knight was a wild man. His tongue was probing for…

  Ten

  Knight stood in isolated splendor in the middle of the…

  Eleven

  The gentleman paused, frowned, then shouted, “Drop the boy! Now…

  Twelve

  “His lordship was such a cute lad, and so very…

  Thirteen

  There was a slight chill in the room. Knight quickly…

  Fourteen

  “My lord!”…

  Fifteen

  Knight bided his time until an hour before dinner. Lily…

  Sixteen

  Lily stared at Knight. He was musing about the history…

  Seventeen

  Lily stared stupidly at Sam. “Oh, dear,” she said and…

  Eighteen

  Lily’s yell died in her throat. She skidded to an…

  Nineteen

  “How can you be more beautiful than you were only…

  Twenty

  The day was cold and clear, the sky a steel…

  Twenty-one

  Fear ripped through Lily, but she held herself still. Completely…

  Twenty-two

  Dr. Brody slowly straightened. “It’s all right, my lord.…

  Twenty-three

  Arielle brought George Curlew, the earl’s steward, and Dr. Brody…

  Epilogue

  On a bright afternoon in early April, Lord and Lady…

  About the Author

  Raves

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  SEPTEMBER 1814

  Knight pulled back and came up onto his knees. He looked down at Daniella’s body, pale as ice and beautifully mysterious, as only a woman’s body could be in the dark of night with just moonlight spilling over her. He touched his fingers to her breast. “You’re exquisite,” he said.

  Daniella opened her eyes and looked at the man whose mistress she’d been for nearly four months now. “Yes,” she murmured, unaware of what she was saying. Her hands swept over his chest, feeling the crisp hair, the smooth musculature, and she sighed as her hands stroked down his belly, flat and warmly hard, and found him.

  Knight moaned.

  “You’re also greedy,” he said and laughed, a pained sound.

  “Perhaps,” she said, caressing him, “but you are also a randy man.”

  “You’re right about that,” Knight said and came into her in one powerful thrust. She gasped at the shock of him, but her body rose to meet his and he clasped her hips, bringing her even closer.

  Her eyes shut and her mouth tightened. He pulled out of her, watching her face and seeing the disappointment in her eyes.

  “Beast,” she whispered and jerked her hips upward. When he filled her again, she moaned and wrapped her legs about his flanks.

  Her prisoner now, he thought as he swelled and probed deep within her. She was nearing her climax. He knew her body well—the slight quivers that clenched the muscles in her belly, the spasmodic tensing of her thighs, the moans that tore from her mouth, raw and ugly and real. But he kept his rhythm uneven, first fast and shallow, then slow and deep, deeper still. Until she cried out, her fists striking his shoulders.

  “Knight.”

  He smiled and said very softly, “All right.” His hand was between their bodies, his knowing fingers caressing her, and she screamed, jerking upward, her eyes wild and unseeing on his face, her forehead shiny with perspiration.

  He felt utterly alone at that moment and supremely powerful. Not since his nineteenth year, the year he’d learned how to pleasure a woman, had he allowed his partner to go unsatisfied. Indeed, he allowed no feigning, and he knew women too well for them to fool him. He saw that she was still and limp beneath him, her pleasure well spent, and he let himself go, let the searing release flood through him.

  “Well,” he said, more to himself than to her after some time had passed and his heart had slowed to normal, “I believe I’ve been properly exercised.”

  Daniella smiled, that sated woman’s smile of hers that was like every other woman’s smile he’d seen after sex; it made him feel again that absolute power. He smoothed back her hair, lightly kissed her mouth, then rose. He stretched, lit a lamp, and kneeling, built up the fire.

  “It’s chilly tonight,” he said some minutes later as he began to bathe himself in the basin atop the commode.

  Daniella watched him, his powerful body silhouetted by the flames leaping upward and the soft candlelight from the branch on the mantelpiece. He was a handsome man, she thought, with his thick, nearly black hair. It wasn’t a blue-black like those Irish rogues she’d met, nor was it the shiny coal black like hers that reflected light and held deep reds. No, it was thick and it was nearly black, deep-looking, and it curled slightly against the back of his neck.

  It was his eyes that held one’s attention. They were brown with yellowish flecks, the eyes of a fox, intelligent eyes, shrewd and cynical. He was lean and firm, endowed with a beautiful male body. He was an athlete and a renowned sportsman, the foremost rider in the Four Horse Club, she’d heard it said; also to his credit, he was a favorite of Gentleman Jackson, that famous fighter who now instructed rich men in the art of boxing, whose remarks were that Viscount Castlerosse was possessed of remarkable science, enduring strength, and wily intelligence. She didn’t know what remarkable science referred to, but it sounded again as if he were superior and thus she savored it because he was hers, at least for a time. Four months now. It seemed so short a span. When would he tire of her? She shook her head unconsciously, un-willing to raise that dreaded specter.

  He was beyond any woman’s reach, she thought, even a lady of quality, which she wasn’t. How many times had he laughed and stated flatly that marriage wasn’t for him, that he believed ardently in the particular philosophy expounded by his father that the wise and sane man married no earlier than the age of forty and that he picked a girl no more than eighteen who was healthy as a stoat, a good breeder, and malleable as a sheep. He begat an heir, then left the child alone to grow without learning the vagaries of his sire.

  Knight Winthrop, Viscount Castlerosse, was many years yet from that fateful age of forty, having attained his twenty-seventh year some three months before. He was a renowned bachelor, sardonic in his cynicism but rarely cruel in his wit.

  She looked at him as he washed his long, muscular legs. His motions were fluid and graceful. He made love in such a way, never hurried, always in control of her and of himself, and always with skill. But she sensed, she knew, that he remained somehow apart from her, alone and apart. Beyond her, she’d thought once when she’d w
atched his face as he reached his own pleasure.

  “Even your feet are lovely.”

  His head jerked up and he laughed. “What did you say? My feet are what?”

  Daniella shook her head. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. She knew better than to say something so stupidly revealing and quickly retrenched. “No, no, my lord. I said your feet are dirty and need to be washed as much as the rest of you.” He didn’t want to know of feelings. He would dismiss her if he felt she wanted him for more than as a generous protector. He wouldn’t be unkind or cruel, but he would leave. She rose slightly off the bed and stretched languidly, aware he was looking at her. Then, equally languidly, she lay down again.

  “Put on something or it will be the worst for you,” he said, and his voice was rough. She made him randy again, her negligent pose on her side, her bountiful breasts pressed together, the smooth line of her hip made even more enticing by her position. Her hair was as black as only an Italian’s could be and her flesh as white as—not snow, he decided. Even in his thoughts he didn’t relish being common. Her flesh was pale, that was all. And those dark, almond-shaped eyes of hers showed all the passion of her Neapolitan heritage. He tossed her a peignoir, a frothy peach affair that he’d bought her some weeks before.

  He watched her slip into it, her movements so practiced that they seemed as naturally seductive as a virgin’s. “Tea, my lord?”

  He nodded. His stomach suddenly growled. “Anything to eat?”

  “Didn’t you eat your fill at the wedding banquet?”

  He grimaced. “I was too nervous. Lord, the bride and groom wouldn’t break apart. It was unnerving. And the ladies—of all ages!—giggling and looking at me as if I were a grouse ready to be set upon by the hunters. I overheard one matron say to another that her daughter was just what Viscount Castlerosse needed. Imagine the impudence of that old bedlamite.”

  Daniella laughed and left the bedchamber. Her maid, Marjorie, was long abed, and her cook and housekeeper didn’t stay in the house at night. Fifteen minutes later she returned to the bedchamber carrying a tray of cold chicken, sliced bread, butter, and honey, and the pot of precious India tea.

  Knight had just pulled on his dressing gown. He helped her spread the feast on the bed. He slapped her buttocks as she climbed over him, and she giggled. “Ah,” she said. “Is it that you have need of me, my lord viscount?”

  Knight picked up a chicken leg and tore off a goodly bite. “My needs,” he said between bites, “are at present in my mouth, just as appropriate in this instance as in others.”

  He saw that she didn’t understand and merely smiled, handing her a chicken wing.

  They ate in companionable silence for some minutes until Daniella, replete, said, “Do tell me about the wedding and the reception. Weren’t your special friends there?”

  He knew she loved to hear about the ladies and gentlemen of his acquaintance—a sort of vicarious envy, he thought, but he willingly obliged her. “You mean Burke Drummond and his wife, Arielle?”

  “He is the Earl of Ravensworth?”

  “Yes. They were there, of course, since the bride is his former sister-in-law. He and Arielle were looking well and fervently happy.”

  “Do you disapprove of their marriage? The earl hasn’t yet reached the age of forty.”

  “You still remember that, do you?”

  “You have remarked upon that particular sentiment at least three times, as I recall.”

  Knight chuckled. “I trust I don’t grow tedious, my dear. No, Burke isn’t close to forty. In fact, he’s my age. As for his wife, well—” Knight paused a moment, picturing Arielle in his mind when he’d first met her at Ravensworth Abbey. “She is well now, I think.”

  “Well? What illness did she have?”

  “Rather a sickness of the spirit, I would say.” He liberally spread butter and honey on a thick slice of bread. “She is a beautiful girl. She is also brave and loyal. I like her.”

  “Does this mean that you will change your mind about marriage, my lord?”

  “Good God, no. She is perfect for Burke, not for me.”

  “Laura very much enjoyed the earl when he was in London.”

  Knight had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable. “I’d forgotten that,” he said. “He was in a bad way, wanting Arielle so much and yet not being able to have her. They weren’t married then, you know. Laura is now with Lord Eaglemere, isn’t she?”

  Daniella nodded. “She doesn’t like him. He is a pig and not natural in what he demands of her.”

  “Tell her to leave him,” Knight said, shrugging.

  Daniella merely looked at him, saying nothing. He could, at times, be as obtuse as a turnip. It wouldn’t occur to him that Laura couldn’t leave Lord Eaglemere. At least not until she had more money from his lordship. Daniella wanted to change the topic and asked, “Do you dislike children?”

  “Not at all. I don’t know children.”

  “You knew yourself, surely.”

  “There is no reason for me to involve myself with children. As you will recall—isn’t it the fourth time now?—my father never busied himself with me. Left me to grow up with all my own perfections and none of his imperfections. He was fond of telling me, on the rare occasion when he saw me, that all my faults were of my own making and owed nothing to him. Perhaps Burke and Arielle will have children. Then I shall become a distant but doting uncle. Now, my dear Daniella, pour me another cup of tea, then remove that annoying peignoir. All this food and conversation have appealed to my baser hunger.”

  NEAR BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

  SEPTEMBER 1814

  Tristan Monroe Winthrop hummed as he quickened his pace. He was a man pleased with his own cunning and his success. He smiled as he hummed, not at all surprised that he could do both at the same time. He was convinced he could do anything. He thought of Lily, waiting for him with his children, and he nearly broke into a trot. He’d been gone but three days, yet he missed them all. Of course, missing his children wasn’t quite the same thing as missing Lily. Beautiful Lily, who would soon be his wife. He’d used his children as levers, shamelessly, he admitted to himself now, and it had worked. His children and the fact that she’d had no other choice, not really. Not yet twenty and on her own in a foreign city, her father’s funeral to pay for, his effects to be seen to. Her father, Baron Markham, that bluff but incredibly unlucky gambler, had been his friend. Tristan had saved him not once but several times from gaming hells that would have taken his beautiful daughter as payment for his debts—without his consent. Then he’d just keeled over, clutching his chest, Lily standing there watching him, at first not understanding, then staring at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d lived another two days. Then he’d died and left her with nothing save the clothes in her armoire.

  But Tris had been there to help her. She liked him, loved his children and they her. He’d invited her to live with him and the children and of course she’d refused, until he’d changed his tune and requested her services as their governess. It wasn’t until two months ago that she’d agreed to marry him. By that time, he’d proved to her that he had no disgusting habits, that he was possessed of a modicum of intelligence and wit; and his children, bless them, had wrapped themselves firmly around her loyal and giving heart.

  Lily Tremaine. A girl so beautiful it nearly took your breath away just to look at her. And she was sublimely unaware of her effect on men. Her incredible honey-blond hair was thick and wavy, and she paid it little attention, tying it up with ribbons or twisting it into braids atop her head. That didn’t matter. Nothing could dim her beauty. Her eyes were a pale gray, calm and serene, but the calmness was a mask, a carefully tended facade, he was certain of it. She was filled with passion, and he would prove it to her and to himself once she was his wife. He quickened his step even more. God, he wanted her. She was seventeen years his junior, but it didn’t matter. She’d been the adult to her father’s child for many a year now. Seventeen years was not
hing. She was too slender for his taste, but she would fill out when she was pregnant with his child. It was all the worry, he supposed, taking care of a vagrant, fatally charming father for five years, wondering whether she would have food for dinner or, on the rare occasion, donning diamonds and silks and attending a ball.

  Loyal, brave Lily. He still held clear the mental picture he had of her as she and the children had waved good-bye to him. He would very much like to tell her that he’d succeeded beyond his wildest expectations, but he couldn’t. Lily, he’d come to realize, had this odd streak of honesty that was occasionally disconcerting, particularly given the fact that her father had been a grand scoundrel, albeit an unlucky one. Of course, he had no intention of telling his children that their father was a thief; not just any kind of common thief, of course, but a master thief and a master strategist. And ruthless, at least this time. According to his calculations, Monk and Boy should be well ensconced in prison by now. In Paris. Far away from him and his family. The bribes had been large enough to make him pause, but it was worth it, indeed it was. No more of those cold, conscienceless bastards to haunt him.

  A master stroke, that was what he’d managed to execute. He was the winner and he’d taken all. Never again would he have to worry about food and lodgings for the children. He could give them and Lily everything.

  He was almost to the small two-story house on Avenue LaRouche. It was a quiet street, poplar trees lining each side, respectable in the extreme, but to his newly sharpened tastes, much too poor for his soon-to-be-higher status in life.

  Nothing would be beyond him now. At the age of thirty-seven he at last savored success, lasting success. He hadn’t killed anybody, hadn’t even hurt anybody. Monk and Boy didn’t count. He was now rich. So bloody rich that it boggled even his wonderfully inventive mind.