To Catch a Flame

by Kimberly Cates

  "Damn it, Beau, you deserve a man who is respectable, a gentleman you can be proud to call your husband. You deserve to be courted and wooed and won like any other woman."

  "Of all the stupid, addle-pated, idiotic, brainless bits of nonsense I've ever heard," Beau cried, her eyes snapping. "I'm not a bloody heifer at a fair to be awarded to the most aggressive bull. And as for being wooed, I thought we'd gotten that out of the way in the coach on the way home from Ranelagh."

  "Don't you see? That is exactly what I am attempting to point out to you. I was your guardian, trusted with the task of protecting you. You should have had white lace, a wedding gown, and a bridal bed decked all in flowers. Not a man fire-hot with passions bearing you down in the seat of an infernal coach when half of London might have been looking on."

  "I would not trade that night for all the insipid bridal beds in England, you lout! I learned every inch of your body in that coach, Griffin Stone, felt the power in it, the passion. We were hungering, both of us, starving for each other. And it was the most glorious feeling I've ever known. But it is obvious you have forgotten, for you've not even bothered to touch me, to kiss me, since the night we vanquished Valmont."

  "Forgotten? I've not been able to think of anything else except tasting you, touching you. But damn it, Beau, I'll not have your honor slurred by licentious servants, not have it bandied about that—"

  "That I was your lover? Your mistress? That I lay tangled up in the coverlets with you night after night, learning what it was to bury myself in someone else's soul? If you want my opinion, you goat-brained fool, it is a little late for you to be so bloody particular!"

  "Just wait one blasted minute, woman!" Griffin said, pulling her against his big body. "You may not bloody appreciate it, but I'm trying to have just a little honor, just a little restraint for the first damned time in my life! I'm trying to be a gentleman worthy enough to love you."

  "A gentleman? A gentleman!" Beau spat the word as if it were the most infamous of epithets. "Well, if you are planning to turn into one of those, I shall cry off the engagement myself! If I had wanted a blasted gentleman, I would have waylaid one years ago. I could have taken any one of a dozen fops prisoner. Maybe I should go back to the highroads and try to find some other reprehensible, stubborn blackguard who loves me just a tenth as well as you once did."

  She turned and stalked toward the door. In a heartbeat he was beside her, his hand gripping her arm. When he spun her to face him the raw fury, raw pain flashing across his features made her heart leap in her chest.

  "Damn you to hell, woman, I'll not let you go back to that life! Not let you get yourself hanged!"

  "I'd like to see you stop me! The month we wagered is over. And besides, what use would a puffed-up, pinch-nosed gentleman have for the likes of me?"

  "I love you. I want to bind you to me forever." Griff’s jaw knotted granite-hard; his eyes glittering with such fiery passion that Beau's breath snagged in her throat. "I want to make love to you every night until you can't breathe, can't speak. I want to fill you with sons and daughters. And I want you to fill... fill me... with light, Isabeau, with laughter. But I must be certain I can give you the kind of future that will give you joy."

  "You have given me more joy than I have ever known."

  "But I have also given you sorrow. Life with me would not be easy in the best of circumstances. But now, Beau, life with me will mean a future in the colonies, far away from your grandmother, from England. Far from everything you know."

  "I can write my grandmother copious letters. And as for England, I've no love for a land that leaves a man as fine as my father no choice but to ride the High Toby. I'm sure the colonies cannot be so much different, Griffin, for they must have sunrises there, and sunsets, and midnight rides across the highroads."

  Griff laughed. "I promise you there are no brigands that cut a dash as elegant as the Devil's Flame, if that is what you are asking."

  "I am only asking to stay with you, be with you. I could bear losing everyone, everything, save you. I've only had three nights away from your arms, and I've never been so miserable in my whole life!"

  "Neither have I!" Griffin's voice broke, filled with wonder, with sorrow, with infinite love.

  "Blast you, Griffin Stone!" She balled up one fist, thumping him on the arm. "If this bout of sackcloth and ashes is what you intend to indulge in every time one of us flies into a temper, then maybe we shouldn't be wed! We'll spend our whole lifetime groveling for each other's forgiveness! And I'd much rather spend the hours I have with you indulging in other pursuits. Like kissing you, loving you, feeling your mouth on my skin."

  She trailed her fingernails down the cord of his neck, felt a shiver of desire rack him, his hard lips parting.

  "Isabeau." His fingers framed her face, and they felt warm, rough, infinitely loving. "The best thing that ever happened to me was the night you blazed down upon that coach, pistols firing. But I never thought... never believed that I could hold you. That any man, even one who loved as much as I did, could ever hope to catch a flame."

  Tears filled Beau's eyes, but her lips parted in a beaming smile. "You know, Stone, if you'd just had the decency to shed your cloak that night upon the road, you would have saved us both considerable trouble."

  "Is that so, milady?" Griff arched his brow, his lips tipping up in anticipation.

  "It is. You could have kept your baubles and your sword point to yourself. For I'd have taken one look at you, Griffin Stone, and demanded your virtue or your life."

  "My virtue?"

  "Aye. I would have made it well worth your while, I vow. Perhaps once we get to America I shall take to the highroads with a vengeance. Every night I shall lay in wait for you, my pistols ready."

  "And once you have me in your dastardly clutches, what will you do with me?"

  "Ravish you. Shamelessly. If we can but take our leave of my grandmother, I shall give you a demonstration."

  Griff looked out the window to where the Ravensmoor coach waited, his eyes aglow with the memory of their first wild-sweet loving.

  He grinned.

  "I am at your mercy, milady Flame."

  Preview To Chase the Storm

  PROLOGUE

  Fairies danced upon the sea, sprinkling the waves with stars. Tempted by the sight, Tessa skipped to the edge of the shore, reaching out her small dimpled hand to catch one of the tiny creatures, but they darted away with laughter she alone could hear. Tessa was left with wet rivulets of silver sifting through her fingers.

  Determined, she plunged deeper, even though the cold water lapped at her chubby knees, then her bare belly as she toddled toward the bits of light, unafraid.

  A wave washed over her, filling her mouth and nose with salty water, but she didn't tumble beneath it, and despite her age she didn't shriek or wail. She laughed as her face broke through the water, blinking her dark-lashed eyes, and shoving her riotous curls away from her gypsy-sweet face.

  Her feet were scarcely touching the pebbly bottom now, the sea spray beckoning her. She wanted to fling herself into its arms, wanted to delve into its magic, its mystery. Beneath the deep were the fairy castles and fairy folk that peopled her father's delicious fireside tales.

  Once again she rushed into the water, pushing off with her toes, and she felt a strange, wonderful sensation, as if she were flying.

  The sea filled her senses, making her head whirl in colors bright as jewels.

  Suddenly, someone whooshed her out of the water and she was safely in her father’s strong arms.

  "Nay, nay, little one," he said. "The fairy folk cannot have you yet."

  "Play," Tessa cried, her bottom lip thrusting out as if robbed of a sweetmeat. "The fairies want me to come play. I heard them, Papa. They sang to me."

  William of Ravenscroft cradled his tiny daughter in his arms, his eyes glowing with tenderness. "Come now, poppet, the fairies must not be so greedy," he told her. "It has only been three summers since your mama and I
plucked you from the waves. Surely you don't think the fairies would steal you back so soon."

  Tessa squirmed as her father's arms tightened fiercely about her. His eyes darkened as if he were afraid some mystical being truly would snatch her from his grasp.

  "Story, Papa. Tell me the story 'bout me an' the fairies an' the ghosts from the sea."

  "But you've heard that tale a hundred times," he teased her, "surely you cannot wish me to tell it again."

  "Please, Papa!" Tessa begged, knowing his question and her answer was a game between them.

  With a sigh, William crossed to the stone where he'd sat with his wood carving, and sank down among the curly yellow shavings, perching Tessa on his knee.

  "Once upon a time, there was a man named—" He paused, waiting.

  "Will'm," she lisped.

  "And a beautiful woman called—"

  "Hagar."

  "They loved each other so much that their love spilled over and filled the tiny cottage where they lived. They needed someone else to help soak up all this loving, and they thought that a child—a little girl—would be the perfect one to do so. But though they prayed and prayed to be blessed with a child, none came to brighten their days.

  "They were very, very sad as time dragged on, and sometimes William would awake at night to find Hagar weeping."

  Tessa stilled, subdued by the thought of her mother's sorrow, even though she knew the joy that was coming.

  "One night, after William had found Hagar weeping, he could not bear his wife's sorrow any longer. He left the little cottage and wandered along the cliffs to the sea. A storm had come the night before, and everything was washed clean from it, but though William usually loved the sea and its magic, tonight he found no comfort in watching the sea-sprites dance upon the moon path in the waves.

  " 'How dare you gallivant so joyfully when my wife is in such pain?' William railed at the fairy folk. And he threw a shell into the water to shatter the moon path. The fairy folk, their dance ruined, circled around William and threatened to plunge him deep into the sea where the great fanged monsters wait."

  "Monsters," Tessa repeated with childish glee. "What next, Papa?"

  "William faced the fairies unafraid. He knew he'd spoiled their revels, and they were right to be angry. But the thought of Hagar, in the cottage for years and years to come, with no husband, and no baby for her to love, made him strong. William straightened tall and stared into the fairy king's eyes. 'I'll go to the monsters and gladly,' said William, 'if you will but grant me one wish. Give my poor wife a babe to love.'

  "The fairy king scratched his diamond beard, his sea-green eyes dark with thought. 'Never have the fairies met a human who has not deafened us pleading for his own life,' the fairy king said. 'Perhaps we can help you. There was a ship from France we charmed into a reef a night past, and among the treasures was a child of such beauty and such courage, we carried her off in a magic cradle to our castle beneath the sea.'

  "William's heart was thundering so hard, he could scarce speak. 'May my wife have this child? In exchange for my life?'

  " 'Nay, this child is special, marked by the stars,' the fairy king told him. 'She is far too wonderful for mere mortals to keep forever. Already the seers of the fairy kingdom have peered into her future and divined that she will be carried off some day by the lord of the sea, a bold sea ghost who will come for her. But we could entrust her into your keeping for a little while—until she is grown. Then you must give her back to us.' "

  Tessa snuggled closer, the story and her father's warmth making her drowsy from her afternoon of play along the shores. "What happened then, Papa?" she asked, trying to stifle a yawn.

  "Why, then, William agreed, and the fairy king took him to that tiny cove, where the waves lap quietly, and there, in a fairy cradle, was a tiny baby girl, more beautiful than anything William had ever seen." Hands, callused from work and care, smoothed over Tessa's soft cheek.

  "So you taked the baby," Tessa said, leaning into his caress.

  "William took the baby to Hagar, fully intending to give himself over to the fairy king, afterward. But when the king saw how much Hagar and William loved each other, he could not bear to part them. So, with the fairy king's blessing, William and Hagar kept the fairy child, bound only by the promise that when the lord of the sea comes to claim her, they will let her go."

  Tessa gave a sated sigh, burying her face against her father's chest. Her lashes drooped, closed. "Tired, Papa," she whispered, and felt the answering rumble of her father's soft laugh.

  "Then sleep, Tessa, babe," he whispered, kissing her tumbled curls. "Sleep, little love, and dream of the sea phantom who will make you his bride someday."

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 29, 1588

  The roar of cannons thundered across the English Channel. Flame spewed from scores of huge guns embedded in the bellies of the ships engaged in a deadly battle on the roiling sea. The English fleet coiled about the slower Spanish vessels like a great fanged serpent, striking at will, then slipping out of the grasp of the armada's massive galleons.

  For days Queen Elizabeth's seamen had taunted their Spanish rivals, daring the hot-tempered captains to break away from the battle formation strictly commanded by the lord high admiral. The smug arrogance of the northern seamen seeped like poison into the hearts of the Spaniards, searing the pride that was more precious to them than life, until the threat of hell itself could not have leashed the fury in Captain Rafael Santadar's broad chest.

  He braced his legs against the pitching quarterdeck, aware that the rest of the Spanish fleet had fallen far behind him, certain that he had been tricked into making a deadly gamble: Sir Francis Drake had lured him toward disaster. Rafe's hand clenched in white-hot frustration about the hilt of his saber as his helmsman battled to bring the Lady of Hidden Sorrows closer to Drake's Revenge—a prize that would bring not only glory to its captor, but put heart back into the sick, half-starved crewmen who manned the armada's ships. But there would be no laurels at the end of this foray, Rafe thought, sensing imminent defeat. There would be nothing but a noose crushing his throat and the hope that his crew would not share his fate.

  He seethed with frustration, helplessness. He had no choice except... except what? To turn from Drake's attack? To flee? Never once had a ship under his command turned from battle. But if the Lady held her course, these men who trusted him so blindly would soon sleep with the serpents of the deep, their death the price of Rafael Santadar's pride.

  And if they rejoined the rest of the Spanish fleet? Rafe jammed his fingers back through the unruly mass of ebony waves that tumbled about his chiseled features, his gaze sweeping over the battered, beloved hull of his gallant Lady. If they returned without Sir Francis Drake as their prize, a hangman's noose would dangle from every spar, the punishment for disobeying the lord high admiral's express orders. Rafael's knuckles whitened as his hands clenched into fists.

  God forbid that a man with sea spray in his blood should use the instincts earned in a lifetime of roving stone-scoured decks. Saints forbid that any mere ship's captain should disobey the bumbling commands of the dull-witted king or object to the misguided notions of a nobleman who grew seasick at the sight of water. Spain would have had a better chance of invading England if Philip had sent the Lady alone, free under my command, Rafe thought grimly. But nay—

  "Rafe, beware!" The cry shattered his bitter musings just before a cannonball crashed into the mast above Rafe's head.

  Rafe dove from beneath the mast, the sound of cracking wood wrenching through him as though his flesh had been torn. He braced his free hand against the pitching deck, the layer of salt cast across the boards to absorb the gore of battle grinding into his palm.

  Oblivious to the pain, he leapt to his feet a heartbeat before the main yard crashed down, the shattered wood hurling thick, deadly splinters at the men battling to reposition the cannon. Rafe winced as he felt something slice his cheek. He brushed it away, his hand warm w
ith blood, and had scarce regained his balance when the roar of another cannonball pierced the wind.

  The second deadly ball cracked into the ship, smashing the block on which one of the massive cannons was mounted. Rafe cried out as a scream split the powder-hazed air, and the cannon's wooden supports shattered. The huge barrel crashed down onto a scrawny powder boy.

  Rafe lunged across the deck toward the lad, but felt a hand clamp around his arm to halt him. He wheeled in fury, desperation, sickened by the death surrounding him.

  "It is too late." Bastion's ebony gaze locked with Rafe's, holding the empathy that had bound the two men in unbreakable friendship for five long years.

  "Bastion—"

  "It is too late for all of us." The tall nobleman wiped his arm across his sweat-sheened brow, his handsome features taut with defeat.

  A sound grated from Rafe's throat, harsh with despair. Too late... The English had named him Phantom of the Midnight Sea, weaving tales about his courage and cunning nearly as fantastical as those the Spaniards whispered about Drake. The English sailors whispered of pacts with the devil's bride, a winsome, poisonous spirit who would wrap Rafe's ship in her midnight hair at his command.

  If only he could call upon some dark spirit as the English sailors claimed, to carry him away along with his beleaguered countrymen. But this was no game of seek-and-dare. There would be no escape for the Lady this time or for Philip's great armada. The aristocratic planes of Rafe's face contorted in anguish. His sensual lips tightened in helpless rage. This was all a hideous waste—every ball that pierced the ship's side, every man who screamed in agony at the loss of arm, leg, or life.

  If only he had heeded his first impulse when Philip had summoned the Lady under Rafe's command to join the ill-fated fleet, Rafe thought. If only he had lost himself in the maze of islands that lay, treasure-rich and passion-hot, in the far-flung seas an eternity away from avaricious monarchs, scheming noblemen, and fanatical priests thirsting for the blood of innocents. For all that he loved Spain itself, he loathed the religious plague scourging his country. He had sought to escape it through countless voyages to distant shores, but his quest to elude the Inquisition and Philip's hunger for England's throne had been hopeless from the start. Rafe had known it.