by Sharon Page
“That’s what St. Clair wanted,” she whispered. “Money for me and revenge on you.”
She heard his soft, angry curse punctuate the dark.
Devlin’s lips brushed the top of her head as he eased off his greatcoat. The warm weight of it settled around her shoulders and he gently hugged her.
“I’m sorry to have put you at risk, Grace. To have brought you anywhere near my world. To think I thought I was a powerful man, who could control the people I thought were loyal to me. I aspired too high, and I forced you to pay the price…” Devlin bent close and she was aware of that sensation of being alone in the world with him. As though everything—mad highwayman and irate brothers-in-law—had dropped away. His knuckles brushed her cheek with such tenderness that she had to cough down a sob.
“If you hadn’t taken me your hostage,” she whispered, “I would have run headlong to my grandmother, only to have my heart broken and my spirit crushed. Without you there for me, without you to care about me, I don’t know what I would have done.”
The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek. His lips followed, a flare of heat on her skin. Heat that flooded to her heart and soul.
“Come on then,” he murmured. “Slide your arms in my coat. You need to be warm.” She did, enthralled as she always was by wearing his clothing. It was foolish, perhaps. But she knew she would never lose this awe she felt around him.
Devlin grasped her hand and started down a path that led away from the boulder and down the hill.
Her feet skidded and she winced as the dirt scraped against her sore feet. “What are you doing?”
Devlin lifted her into his arms. “I’m going to get you to your family, where you’ll be safe.”
“You can’t! They’re with the magistrate.” She fought against his grip—even though she knew he’d picked her up to spare her feet.
“I need to know you’re protected, Grace. Then I’m going to find Rogan and tear him apart.”
“I can’t go back there!” She’d forgotten the need for silence and the sharp cry she made was like a knife to her own heart. Foolish. Foolish! She could get them both killed. “I don’t belong in that world. I want to be with you. I can help you stop St. Clair and we can run away together—”
But Devlin, framed by moonlight, shook his head. “You wouldn’t be happy living wild with me, away from your family, away from the society you deserve to be a part of. You’d always feel that something was missing.”
“Is that how you felt?” They’d traveled several yards and the end was rushing inexorably closer. She’d have to shout the instant she saw Marcus and Dash and make sure the men knew Devlin was innocent—
“Yes,” he agreed.
Grace waited for more. Hoped for more. She knew what she had been missing all along, what she had just realized she had with Devlin. A sense of belonging. Of being in the right place. She knew that being with Devlin was the right place to be.
“We’re to meet them at the end of this lane.”
Marcus’s voice. She would have frozen on the spot if not for Devlin urging her ahead. They would reach Marcus and Dash soon. They would be facing the magistrate within moments.
She would tell the truth.
But how would that help Devlin with the magistrate, who would want his hide for all his other crimes?
Slowly Devlin set her down, and she immediately stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. “Let me go. I’ll run to them myself. I’ll tell them I escaped from St. Clair. Let the magistrate and his men hunt Rogan St. Clair down while you flee.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not a gentleman but I’m an honorable man. I’m not going to flee while you are still in danger.”
She let out a hiss of exasperation. Devlin held her arm so tightly she couldn’t break free. She could see the gravel and mud of the lane through the trees now. They were only a half a dozen yards away. She could see the other men approaching. “Do you always walk straight into danger?” she whispered angrily.
“Always.”
“And you always escape unscathed?”
“I’ve always escaped with my life, but never unscathed.” He stopped then and hope rose. Perhaps he had seen sense—he would let her go and he would hide.
He cupped her cheek, his large, rough hand fitting the curve perfectly—another sign, her foolish mind said, they belonged.
“I love you, Grace. Damn, I love you with everything I have to give. No other woman would ask questions intended to drive right to my heart in the midst of danger. You are the greatest treasure I’ve ever aspired to, and I had no right to aspire to you. No right to kidnap you, sweeting.” Moonlight filtering between the trees touched his wide, rueful grin. “But what man can resist grasping for heaven when he finds it?”
She couldn’t speak.
It was his way of saying good-bye.
He loved her.
“Devlin, I—”
“Did you hear that?” Grace recognized Dash’s lazy drawl, so close that she almost jumped out of her skin. She heard the other sounds—a crunch, then a soft crack. She’d been lost in Devlin and hadn’t heard—
The brush exploded at their side and Grace screamed as St. Clair burst out. With his black hair and clothes, he was almost invisible in the dark, but his pistol wasn’t. He pointed the gun at Devlin’s temple. As soon as he saw Devlin would not move, he quickly jerked his arm to aim the barrel at her head.
Grace stared, knowing her eyes were wide and her legs immobilized.
The explosion rang in her ears and sent her legs falling beneath her. It was as though her limbs fell away from her and then her body followed.
Dead. Was she dead? Blast St. Clair to the hottest depths of hell—he’d taken her away just when she’d found everything she wanted. Everything she needed. Devlin.
Why wasn’t there pain? Had she gone so quick she didn’t feel any?
Strong arms gathered her up. Her head ached and she did feel a stab of pain, but she hesitantly lifted her fingers to her skull. She shouldn’t have a head, should she?
Male shouts surrounded them. Bushes crashed all around, but she could only stare ahead at the sight revealed by shafts of moonlight.
Rogan St. Clair’s body lay sprawled on the ground, a black hole where his chest had been.
Devlin had shot St. Clair before St. Clair had shot her.
Her legs threatened to fall like skittles again. But she had to find strength. Just like on the heaving ship, she could find a way to stand tall at Devlin’s side.
St. Clair’s men—a dirty, disheveled group of four—were surrounding them. But her brothers-in-law, the magistrate, and his men charged into the woods, armed with pistols, rifles, and blades. Luckily, men who served a Judas of a master didn’t put much stock into loyalty. They quickly surrendered rather than lose their lives.
But there was confusion around as men were captured and as some tried to flee. Bodies crashed through the woods and men shouted, grunted, and cursed all around. Marcus called out to her. “Grace! Where are you, Grace?”
“Bloody hell!” Dash yelled. “I can’t find her.”
Devlin’s hands clasped lightly on either side of her face and she winced—then saw the pain flash on his face at her involuntary grimace. But his hands were strong, warm, and she wanted them there.
His lips lowered to hers.
He wanted to kiss? Now?
“Devlin,” she whispered, even as she tipped her head up in anticipation of touching her mouth to his. “We don’t have time. You can slip away now, before Trent and Swansborough find me. You could be gone if you hurry.” Even as she rasped out the words, she yearned to hook her arms around Devlin’s neck and hold him, keep him trapped, and kiss him—
She couldn’t. She had to let him escape.
But she could almost taste him, even with his lips an inch from hers, and she breathed in the heat of his mouth and felt all sense rush away. Up on tiptoe, she surged and she hurriedly pressed her lips to his. A few seconds. It was all she could have.
Devlin’s hand slid around her neck, holding her possessively, and he caught her around her waist. She sinuously pushed her body against his. Only a few seconds to savor his size, his strength—the body that she knew so well and adored so much.
His mouth teased hers, joined hers, and his kiss commanded all her thoughts. She flicked her tongue with his, playfully, and giggled into his mouth when he groaned into hers. He could kiss away her doubts, kiss away her fears, but he couldn’t kiss away doom.
They’d been kissing too long—
She pulled back. “You have to run—”
But he just shook his head. “No, Grace. Once you accused me of being so arrogant as to think that I was above the law.”
Dread crept through her, like cold on a winter’s day, and her body began to feel numb. He wasn’t going to run.
“Sweetheart, I knew it would break my heart to let you go, but I believed I had the courage to do it. I’m a wanted man—how could I evade the law with a wife and children? I’d be putting a woman like you at too much risk. I’d be putting our children at risk.”
Children? He’d been thinking of marriage; he’d been thinking of their future together.
“I know. I want you to go and have your freedom,” she urged.
His mouth took hers into a soaring kiss again, but as he eased back, he whispered, “I’m going to give it up for you. I intend to live like an ordinary gentleman, Grace. I intend to become the kind of man who has a right to propose marriage to you.”
“You’re going to stop—”
“But that’s not enough, Grace. I cannot be your husband as a fugitive.”
She trembled. “What do you mean?”
“A wanted man isn’t good enough for you. A man brave enough to pay his price would be.”
She drew back, astonished. He wanted to pay his price to be worthy of offering marriage to her. “But they’ll hang you!”
That wild grin came to his lips. “It’s this or nothing, Grace. I’ll come to you as an honest man, or I cannot have you at all.”
“Devlin Sharpe, stand where you are!” The voice thundered over Grace, and she stood frozen as the magistrate and three armed men strode toward them.
Oh dear heaven, was Devlin going to hang?
“Devlin Sharpe is the hero in this! Why can you gentlemen not understand this!” Grace cried as she surged forward to stop the magistrate, Sir Charles Ball, from taking Devlin away. But Marcus firmly caught her by her shoulders, and his strong grip imprisoned her.
“Stop this, Grace.”
But despair and fear and horror roared through her. “He is not the one who kidnapped me, who hurt me, who hit me! Rogan St. Clair is—”
“We know that St. Clair is responsible,” Marcus assured her. His deep voice was intended to calm her, to soothe her, but it only made her more desperate. Then why couldn’t they let Devlin go?
The magistrate’s men surrounded Devlin—two bent at his feet, throwing the hasps of shackles and locking them tight. Another man clamped a pair of handcuffs onto Devlin’s wrists. The chains that bound him hand and foot looked dirty and rusty, but she had never seen Devlin look more proud.
Was it defiance? But she saw at once he wasn’t looking at the magistrate; he was looking at her, and her heart turned on edge. He looked uncertain, he appeared to be waiting—for what? To be hauled away in chains?
Marcus’s grip had not slackened, so she could not put her arms around Devlin one last time. She threw a desperate glance at Dash—her sister Maryanne’s husband had sported a black and dangerous reputation when he’d fallen for Maryanne. He’d reputedly done the wildest, darkest, most scandalous sexual things.
But even Dash gave a sharp shake of his head. “He’s a highwayman, Grace. It’s unlikely he’ll be set free without trial.”
Dash possessed dark eyes and thick dark lashes, and in the shadows of the night, she couldn’t read his expression. The tone of his words suggested warning.
She struggled beneath Marcus’s grip. A kick had freed her from Rogan St. Clair, but she doubted kicking her handsome and autocratic brother-in-law would be a wise plan. And what would she achieve? A moment’s freedom followed by a quick toss into the carriage, where he and Dash would probably bar the door.
Both men had to be restraining themselves. Both men might believe Devlin hadn’t hurt her, but they’d guessed he’d made love to her. She’d come so ferociously to his defense, what else could they think?
Both Dash and Marcus would believe her honor worth fighting over.
“But Devlin has done things for the Navy!” Grace cried. “They forgave him being a pirate. He rescued me, saved my life, and I’m the sister-in-law of a peer. Could he not be pardoned for that?”
The magistrate’s gaze settled on her and her heart lurched in hope as she read some sympathy there. A touch of a smile came to the elderly man’s mouth. “I doubt, Miss Hamilton, that we will see Mr. Sharpe hang, but he has to have his day in the assizes.”
“But he’ll be imprisoned!”
She swung around to face Devlin, who stood weighted down by chains. Why was he not defending himself? She suspected that Devlin had fought his way out of worse situations.
He didn’t want to fight. She saw his expression and understood. He believed he had to transform himself into an honest man for her, and the only way he could do that was to either be pardoned or punished.
Bother him! She didn’t want that. She wanted him.
Society’s acceptance didn’t matter one jot to her anymore.
“Devlin,” she cried, and she didn’t care that they were surrounded by men who would hear her, who might laugh at her, who had perhaps already judged her wanton and foolish. “I love you, Devlin. No matter what, I love you.”
Marcus gently drew her back and forced her to walk toward his carriage. The magistrate’s men roughly hauled Devlin back, dragging him away from her.
“Grace, I’ve no right to say it to you,” Devlin called out, “But I love you.”
19
“There! Are you quite satisfied! He’s rotting in Newgate, awaiting trial!”
Grace saw her oldest sister Venetia roll her eyes. She knew her anger was being dismissed as another dramatic outburst and that her sisters had no idea of the agony she was truly in. She grasped a small Chinese vase, a brilliant scarlet piece, and threw it at the wall.
It exploded into a storm of red porcelain pieces.
“That’s enough.” Venetia jumped to her feet and marched over. “I wouldn’t let my son behave so childishly.” Her sister stormed toward her like the imperious countess she now was. Expecting her second child, Venetia glowed and her wilder, artistic nature seemed completely hidden by a commanding and controlling calm. Perhaps this was what motherhood did.
Grace had grown up believing her mother, Olivia, had yearned to go back to the ton and that her mother’s patient calm had covered up broken dreams. After all, Grace knew what it had been to give up dreams. She’d had many romantic and dramatic dreams—marrying princes, being the most admired lady at the most important ball of the Season, being presented at court—all a young girl’s treasured fantasies.
Grace had thought her mother dreamed of the world she had lost. And Grace thought that was why her mother believed a good marriage to a dashing titled man and financial security should be her dream. Because it had been her lost dream.
But now she saw that her mother’s dream had always been freedom. Pursuing Rodesson had only been a concrete way to seek freedom. After all, why had her mother never tried to go home?
Was it not because Olivia feared rejection from the dragonlike Countess of Warren, but because Olivia actually did not want to go back?
Grace jerked back to the present as Venetia firmly pushed her toward the settee.
“Now sit down, Grace,” Venetia continued. “If we are to make an intelligent plan, we need to act with some intelligence.”
She didn’t sit, though; she stood in front of the deli
cate, silk-covered sofa, feeling like a prisoner in the dock.
“So, obviously, you and the pirate Mr. Sharpe have fallen in love.” Venetia had rested back against the mantel, and she looked pained, as though the carved wood was digging into her spine, but Grace knew what hurt Venetia was losing control. Venetia had tried valiantly to look after her youngest sister, to keep her out of trouble, and she’d failed.
“I suppose Mr. Sharpe has ruined you,” Venetia said.
“No. I won’t have you leaping to censorious conclusions, Venetia,” Grace protested.
“And if you want to refer to him as a pirate, should he not be Captain Sharpe?” Maryanne threw in. “When he was acting as a highwayman, I assume we would call him Mr. Sharpe.”
Grace almost giggled at the withering look Venetia directed at Maryanne. With their mother in Italy, Venetia was trying so desperately to be their mother.
Grace could not stand for it. “Why do we not just call him Devlin?” she cried in frustration.
But Venetia was showing her artistic temperament now. “A highwayman and a pirate! All he needed to make himself more scandalous was to have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament!”
“Venetia, he’s hardly a traitor. The British Navy has been in his debt,” Grace pointed out. “And Devlin did not ruin me.”
“So you and Mr.—Devlin did not make love?”
Both her sisters looked at her with quirked brows and pursed lips, expressions that screamed their disbelief.
“We did, but Devlin rescued me.”
“From Mr. St. Clair, which was very noble and heroic,” Venetia said, “but it is his lusty actions that are important here—”
“No, he rescued me at the very beginning. I wanted to marry—years ago, before you married Marcus, Venetia. I intended to save our family by making a good marriage.”
“Well, Mother certainly thought you might,” Maryanne said, “You’ve always been lovely—the loveliest of us all.”
Venetia humphed and folded her arms over her chest. “I did not think throwing you into marriage was the solution. So I painted.”
“I know what you did for us all, Venetia! But I thought I should help too.”
