Immortal Warriors 02 - Secrets of the Highwayman

by Sara Mackenzie

  “You were young and adventurous,” said Melanie.

  “To put it mildly.” He turned again to the book.

  “After distinguishing himself in battle and proving himself to be a brave and gallant soldier, Nathaniel was sent on a reconnoitering mission behind enemy lines. During an ambush he was wounded, and, although he got himself to safety, Nathaniel was no longer fit for service. He returned home, to Ravenswood, to take up the life of the country gentleman to which he had been born. Unfortunately for all concerned, the excitement of the army had spoiled him for country life. It soon became apparent Ravenswood was far too tame for his liking.”

  Irritably, Nathaniel flicked at the page with his fingertip. “What rot! It wasn’t tedious, it was never tedious. I was fully prepared to be the squire of Ravenswood—I knew I was lucky to be alive.” Then he gave her a sheepish glance, “Well, maybe I was a little bored, but wouldn’t anyone be who’d just returned from fighting Napoleon? I needed time to adjust, to interest myself in local affairs, to find a wife! In time I would have settled down, I know it.”

  Melanie wondered whether he was trying to convince her or himself, but she was feeling charitable. “It’s a well-known fact that men take longer to grow up and shoulder their responsibilities than women. You were probably a late starter.”

  He smiled as if she amused him. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  So much for her being kind. Now he was flirting with her. “You’ve ruined my concentration, so you might as well keep reading.”

  “Your wish is my command.” He sketched a bow without getting out of his chair. “To pass the time Nathaniel Raven took up a hobby; robbing coaches on the Truro Road. He would lie in wait for the vehicles and then ride out, brandishing his pistol, and demanding—” Nathaniel stopped, and looked up at her again. “Are you certain you want to hear this?”

  Melanie widened her eyes and said, breathlessly, “Of course I want to hear it. Read on, Mr. Raven.”

  Nathaniel shook his head at her performance. “I suppose I deserve that…Major Pengorren, who had been Nathaniel’s commanding officer and was now his stepfather, was another man like the elder Raven. Fine and upstanding, he sought to protect Nathaniel as best he could from his own recklessness, but it was too late. The local families were already tired of his rascally behavior and decided to take the law into their own hands. Finally, in the very act of one of his daring highway robberies, Nathaniel was shot dead by Sir Arthur Tregilly’s coachman. A lucky shot and although tragic in its consequences, perhaps a blessing in disguise.

  “One can speculate as to why Nathaniel Raven went bad. Perhaps the head wounds he received during his time in Spain had something to do with his dangerous behavior. There were rumors at the time that those head wounds had never healed; indeed, that they had sent him insane.”

  Nathaniel threw the book violently and then jumped up, pursued it, and kicked it to the other side of the room. It landed in a tangled mess of pages against the far wall.

  Melanie held her breath, watching him warily.

  He turned and glared at her. His chest was rising and falling quickly, there was a flush along his cheekbones, and his hands were clenched into fists.

  She hadn’t seen him lose his temper like this, and she no longer wondered whether or not he was capable of the things he was supposed to have done. “That’s a shame,” she said cautiously. “I was waiting to hear if there was a chapter on Major Pengorren.”

  “That was a chapter on Pengorren. I read it first. To myself.”

  “Well, what did it say?”

  The anger was gone as quickly as it came. But still Melanie kept a watchful eye on him as he sat down on the arm of his chair.

  “A month after I was shot to death Pengorren married Sophie. The writer of that heap of rubbish wants us to know that the wedding was a ‘ray of sunshine in a household heavy with sorrow and gloom.’ Pengorren could do no wrong in his eyes, it seems.”

  “Ah.” Melanie could understand his feelings; maybe the author deserved to be kicked across the room. “Did…I don’t quite know how to phrase this…Did Sophie fall down the stairs, too?”

  “According to the dates on the family tree in the back of the book, Sophie must already have been with child by him when they married. The baby, a son, was born only four months later, in October of 1814. She didn’t bear Pengorren any more children, but she lived a good few years after 1814. And no”—he cast her a humorless smile—“it doesn’t say how she died.”

  This was his sister they were speaking about, not just a name from the distant past. Sophie was real, and Melanie had seen her in the flesh. A pretty girl, her smile as wickedly charming as Nathaniel’s, on the verge of womanhood.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He showed his teeth. “It’s Pengorren who should be sorry.”

  “Maybe you’re right, maybe he was a lecherous bastard who preyed on a vulnerable young girl, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. For all you know they might have been deliriously happy together.”

  He didn’t answer; he was looking out into the park. Lost in his own thoughts.

  His new vulnerability made Melanie uncomfortable. She preferred his cockiness; at least she knew how to keep him at a distance when he was like that. But now…she was fighting the urge to go over to him and pat his shoulder. Or give him a hug.

  “Did Pengorren marry again after Sophie?” she asked quickly.

  “Not according to the book…if the author can be believed.”

  “Well, there you are then! He was heartbroken.”

  But her words sounded hollow. She could not imagine the man she had seen at the Yuletide Ball heartbroken. He was far too self-obsessed.

  “Do you know what happened to Pengorren after Sophie died?”

  “He lived on here at Ravenswood, and then one day he went down to the sea and never returned. He was supposed to have walked into the water and drowned, accidentally or on purpose, no one knows. Ravenswood was passed on to his son…Sophie’s son. I suppose that’s some consolation for me—there was Raven blood mixed in with the Pengorren.”

  “And then, eventually, everything came down to Miss Pengorren, the last of them all.” It was sad that such an old family had dwindled to one. “Was there a body? I mean, after he walked into the sea, did they ever recover his body?”

  Nathaniel shrugged impatiently. “I don’t know, the book doesn’t say, or the author doesn’t know. What does it matter after all these years? If he wasn’t dead, then he certainly is now.”

  “Unless the queen of the between-worlds wants to give him a chance to change history, too.”

  As soon as she said it she wished she hadn’t. The idea of Pengorren alive and well in her world gave her the same squirmy feeling she’d had when she first saw him. Nathaniel was one thing—she didn’t trust him, and he made her uncomfortable—but she wasn’t scared of him. Pengorren was different; he definitely gave her the creeps.

  “You ask a great many questions,” Nathaniel said softly.

  “Maybe you should have asked more.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And you’re very free with your opinions, Miss Jones.”

  “These days we don’t have to wait until we’re spoken to, or curtsy to our betters,” Melanie retorted, and couldn’t seem to help herself. She just couldn’t shut up; he had that effect on her.

  And now she had a headache, and it was getting worse. It had been a long day, and her journey into the between-worlds hadn’t helped. She wiggled her shoulders, moving her neck from side to side to try and ease the kinks. At home she visited a masseuse, but she hadn’t had time to make an appointment before she left for Cornwall. Now, with everything that had happened, tension was causing all sorts of problems. She wondered if her headache was going to turn into a migraine. They’d been the scourge of her teenage years, waves of pounding agony that had incapacitated her for days on end.

  Suzie always said she was strung too tightly and needed to relax, but it wasn’t just that.
There had been other reasons for the migraines, reasons she never spoke of these days…

  “You have the headache.”

  His warm hands rested firmly on her shoulders, making Melanie jump. But he was already working with his thumbs on the little knots of pain clustered near her shoulder blades.

  “Ouch!”

  “Be still.” He was right behind her, and she could feel the solid warmth of his body. The confident touch of his hands was like being branded—there was no escaping it. “You’re like a bitch I once had, Melanie. Always jumping and whining, never relaxing into just being. Sometimes being in the moment is more important than thinking about what has passed, or what is to come.”

  “A bitch!”

  She tried to wriggle free, but he held her, and bending closer, murmured in her ear, “Be still. Please, let me help you.”

  Melanie had a choice. She could scream and run from the room, or she could sit and let him do his thing. Her head was throbbing—he couldn’t make it any worse…

  He hadn’t waited for an answer, seeking the painful spots with his strong fingers and working on them until the pain eased, and then moving on to the next ones. He knew what he was doing, Melanie decided with relief. Her doubts melted before the pleasure he was giving her, and Melanie moaned softly and let her eyes drift shut and her head sink forward onto her chest. His fingers crept upward, into the taut muscles of her neck, circling, pressing, caressing in a way that was truly amazing.

  Sinfully so.

  “How did you learn to do this?” she asked, her voice barely audible. In a moment she’d be panting, her tongue lolling.

  His chuckle was soft and seductive. “There was a Moorish woman. After I was wounded I had appalling headaches. I would lie for days in a darkened room in agony, or turn to opium to dull the pain. Her fingers saved me from that. I asked her to teach me the technique.”

  Lethargy was claiming her. Soon she’d be beyond speech, beyond anything but putting her head down on the desk and closing her eyes.

  “Was that the only technique she taught you?” She was fighting to get just the right note of sarcasm in her voice, fighting not to surrender herself to his skill.

  His fingertip brushed over her collarbone beneath her sweatshirt. “I didn’t need lessons in pleasing a woman. I can show you my ‘technique’ in that, too, if you wish. Are you brave enough, Melanie?”

  He was laughing at her. Her lethargy vanished. Melanie straightened and pushed his hands away, turning to glare up at him. A spiky layer of her fair hair fell into her eyes, and she shoved it back impatiently. He was close, his eyes only inches from hers, and despite his teasing, there was a challenge in them.

  He was daring her.

  But Melanie knew she was frightened of him and what he made her feel, and she had no intention of relaxing her guard when he was around. The massage had been a mistake, one she wouldn’t repeat. It was much safer to take a couple of ibuprofen tablets.

  “I appreciate you trying to ease my headache,” she said levelly, “but it’s better now.”

  “I don’t believe you, Melanie.”

  He waited a beat, to see if she’d answer him or change her mind, and then he gave her that mocking bow and moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Melanie fought to keep the anxiety from her voice.

  “For a walk,” he said levelly, and kept going. “I want to think, and I find nature conducive to thought.”

  “Will you be staying here at Ravenswood tonight?”

  At the door he turned and gave her his full attention. “Where else would I stay, Melanie? Ravenswood is my home.”

  “Was your home,” she reminded him. “My room is the one overlooking the cliffs.”

  He smiled, and she realized how that must have sounded. Her cheeks felt warm, and she cursed her own clumsiness. “I mean, the other rooms are free for you to choose from. Just not that one.”

  “I understand you perfectly. Don’t concern yourself.” He gave her his devilish smile, and then he was gone.

  Melanie bit her lip. She had been ungracious, but she couldn’t help it. Nathaniel threatened her carefully regulated world, the world she had created to keep herself safe. No matter how she fought to stop him he seemed to be dismantling it, with a smile, a word, a touch…bit by bit.

  I didn’t ask him to come here, I don’t want him here.

  Then why, deep inside, was she purring like her Aston Martin? As if Nathaniel Raven had just turned the key.

  Twelve

  Nathaniel kicked at a dandelion head, watching the white fluff float off in the warm air. Early-evening shadows lay long across the landscape and the light was mellow and gold. His favorite time of day. It was a shame he had to spoil it by thinking about Melanie Jones. She was an infuriating woman. How could he possibly work with her? The queen was wrong; this woman would never be able to help him. They’d end up killing each other…

  Or making the most wonderful love.

  Nathaniel was a simple man. At least his life appeared simple to him, so he never thought too hard about what might or might not happen. He just reacted when it did. Now he was meant to pore over the past for clues.

  The old lady, Miss Pengorren, had believed something was amiss. He hadn’t read her diary, yet, but the final entry was tantalizing. Had he been right all along? Was there something very wrong with Pengorren?

  Then again, Pengorren might be exactly what he seemed, and it was Nathaniel who was at fault. Nathaniel, who caused his own death, lying on the road and bleeding his life away for nothing more than an insane delusion. The head injuries…much as he was reluctant to admit it, it made a sort of sense.

  So what was he to believe? He stood in a patch of bluebells, looked up at the sky, and reached down deep into his heart and soul.

  Pengorren was a monster.

  The words sounded in his head, measured, solemn, and absolutely certain. He felt the resolve growing inside him. He’d complete the task the queen of the between-worlds had set him, and this time he’d get it right.

  A long, damp nose butted his hand. With a grimace, Nathaniel looked down into Teth’s grinning face.

  “What do you want, you demon?” he demanded, catching Teth’s muzzle and shaking it.

  In reply the hound pulled away and caught the tail of his jacket in his teeth and began to tug, growling playfully.

  “You’ll tear it,” Nathaniel warned, then, “Heel!” But Teth wouldn’t let go and wouldn’t stop tugging. “What is it?” Nathaniel asked, allowing himself to be led along. “What is it you want from me this time, you hellhound?”

  Teth released him and bounded off through the trees.

  Glad for an excuse to stop cogitating over his former life and get back to what he did best—physical action—Nathaniel set off after him.

  The bluebells reminded him of Melanie’s eyes, although forget-me-nots better described her color. He hadn’t meant to touch her, but when she began to wriggle her neck and shoulders and her eyes clouded with pain, he’d recognized the signs of the headache. Of course she wouldn’t admit it; she didn’t want him to see her weakness. He already sensed that she was the sort who would walk a mile with a broken leg rather than limp and admit there was something wrong. So Nathaniel took the initiative, and as he rubbed the painful knots out of her muscles, feeling her slowly giving herself into his hands, he’d been aware of her skin beneath his fingers, as exquisite as any he’d ever known.

  She was strong and stubborn, but beneath the prickles there was a sweetness, a sensuality, that a man like him found irresistible. Because he wanted her.

  Nathaniel gave a self-satisfied smile as he remembered how he won her over with his fingers, took control of her senses. She’d all but given in to his superiority, until he tried to push her too far, too fast, and she’d wrested control back from him. Just as well, he told himself, kicking another dandelion. She was here to help him, not to make matters more complicated than they already were.

  Bu
t Nathaniel knew in his secret heart what he wanted to do—have her and the consequences be damned. He was a man who took risks, who enjoyed taking risks, and Melanie Jones was certainly a risk.

  Teth led him to St. Anne’s Hill and around to the other side. Across the patchwork of fields and stone walls lay the village, a sprawl of the old and the new. Cottages, the shop, the pub, the grey snub-towered church sitting prominently on its own small hill. Everything was so familiar, he felt as if he had slipped into the past again.

  Teth was panting by his side as Nathaniel sat down on the grassy slope in the shadow of St. Anne’s Hill. “Yes, I know,” he told the hound. “You want to get going. But we have to wait until it’s dark. We don’t want people to see us, do we, Teth? We don’t want to frighten them again.”

  Obediently the hound lay down, placing his head on his paws and watching Nathaniel with liquid eyes. Apart from the occasional drone of a car engine, everything was peaceful.

  Nathaniel stretched out beside Teth to wait.

  Mr. Trewartha was dozing, as he did most of the time nowadays, seated in his recliner, neither awake nor asleep, just lost in the past. It was a preparation for death, he knew that, and although he once fought against it, now he accepted it. His long life was coming to an end…

  The shrill ring of the telephone barely disturbed his thoughts, but some part of him was aware of the answering machine picking up.

  I am currently unavailable. Please leave a message or ring back during business hours, 9 to 4.

  “Mr. Trewartha. I’m sorry to disturb you. It’s, eh, 5:00 P.M. I’ve been ringing around some of the better-known antique businesses in the area, and your name came up several times. I realize you’re semiretired these days, but you come very highly recommended by your peers.”

  The sound of her voice.

  He sat up, blinking, instantly awake.

  “My name is Melanie Jones, I’m from a London firm of solicitors, and we’re undertaking the sale of an old family home. Fully furnished and untouched. Everything will need to be cataloged and valued. I know it will be an enormous job but, well, from what I’ve heard, you’d be perfect for the task. I hope you’ll consider it.”