Dangerous Beauty

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  His frown fled and his gray eyes skewered her. “I think you know the truth already, if you’ll but listen to your soul.”

  “I am too new at this,” she pleaded.

  “So am I,” he returned, his voice low.

  Her heart thudded hard. “Then I did not imagine…”

  “No, you did not.” His eyes held her captive. He took a step closer, so that his boots brushed her hem. “Natasha, end this now. Give the word, and I’ll not return.”

  “I cannot.” It was the truth.

  “I’ll ruin your life for you if I stay.”

  “If I am to tell you to go, would I not be the one to carry the blame?”

  “You would take on the world for you and yours—I saw what you did for Vaughn and his wife in there. It takes a rare courage indeed, but Natasha…” He shook his head, almost as if he were in pain. “There are things about me…things you cannot possibly imagine.”

  She shivered. “You’re scaring me.”

  “You should be scared! Send me away, Natasha. Now, before it’s too late. Send me away, because, God help me, I’ve not the willpower to leave.”

  She laid her hand on his arm. “That is all the truth we need,” she said quietly. “I will defy anyone, knowing that truth.”

  “For the love of sweet heaven—” he began.

  “Natasha!”

  Natasha jumped, hearing her father’s firm summons. She let her hand fall from Seth’s arm and turned to find her father pushing the glass doors open, the doorman jumping out of his way.

  Her father’s jaw was tense, his eyes glittering, as his gaze shifted from Seth to her and back. He was furious. “Return to the ballroom this instant.”

  “Father—”

  “Obey me at once!” he roared.

  She stood her ground, even though she trembled with fear. She had never in her life defied her father so openly. She tried to hide the tremble in her voice as she attempted another sally. “Father, you might at least—”

  “Now!” And he raised his hand high. Shocked slithered through her. Her father was about to strike her—and in public! He had never hit her in her entire life. He must be desperate beyond tolerance to resort to such an act.

  She braced herself. There was no way to avoid the blow. As his big hand descended, it slapped into Seth’s palm.

  Seth gripped her father’s wrist, the knuckles turning white as he exerted force to halt it. “Lord Munroe, control yourself.”

  Her father wrenched his wrist out of Seth’s grasp and turned on him with a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “I should have you arrested this instant. How dare you trifle with my daughter?”

  There was a murmur behind her and Natasha turned to see that her father’s shouting had already drawn a crowd. People were oozing out through the doors, filling up the wide porch at the top of the steps to the street.

  “I think you have misinterpreted the situation,” Seth said quietly.

  “I know what I see!” Munroe roared, his face turning red. “You think I don’t know who you are, Williams? Did you think that this pap about ships and fleets and the colonies would fool me?”

  “It’s the truth,” Seth said coolly. But his hands were curled into tight fists by his sides.

  “You are the son of the Earl of Innesford. You’re the scoundrel that killed two of your fellow Englishmen in that riot in Ireland fifteen years ago. Your real name is Williams. You’ve the look of your sire.”

  Natasha stared at Seth, willing him to deny it. But he made no sound, gave no sign of protest. His face had turned pale.

  She could not let him take the assault unaided. “Father, this is madness. He is a sea captain, from Australia.”

  “Natasha, no,” Seth said quietly.

  Natasha stared at him, her heart pounding. Why did he tell her to stop? Because this was the truth? Oh god, was this the truth that he would not give her?

  “Your father is right, young Natasha.”

  Natasha whirled to face the Countess of Innesford, who stepped from the crowd, pulling her shawl about her frail shoulders. “This is my son, Seth Williams. I have not seen him since the riot in Ireland. To me he has been dead for fifteen years.” She looked at Seth and her expression was a replica of the haughty one she had given him in the ballroom earlier in the evening. “And he will continue to be dead to me.” She turned her back on him and walked away.

  The small group that had formed now whispered loudly, passing on the nugget of information. Oh, they would be lapping this up!

  Ice-cold fingers gripped Natasha’s insides and she began to shake. The countess’ inexplicably rude behavior all made sense…if Seth really was her son. And Vaughn—Vaughn had recognized him, too, even though Seth had denied it. And her father…

  Lord Munroe took a step closer to Seth. “Stay away from my daughter, Harrow. Williams. Whatever you style yourself these days matters naught. You are nothing but a thief and a murderer, and you are not welcome here.”

  “Seth, tell them they’re wrong,” she begged.

  He looked at her and she saw regret in his eyes. “I cannot, though I’d give my soul for it to be otherwise.”

  Natasha tried to absorb the information. Seth Harrow was the son of the Earl of Innesford. Bile rose in her throat. Dear God, she had very nearly given herself to a murderer. She swayed, saw the ground rushing to meet her, and saw no more.

  Chapter Six

  Seth stared into the flames. The image of Natasha’s white face wouldn’t leave him be. He’d managed to catch her as she fell and he could still feel her in his arms—her limp body and very white face.

  He’d barely had time for a single stroke to her cheek before they’d unceremoniously hauled him away.

  Her family had crowded around her, then, shut him out. Even Munroe had scurried to his daughter’s side, his fury forgotten.

  That’s when Vaughn had pulled him away, physically manhandling him into a waiting cab.

  “Would you like another?” Vaughn filled Seth’s glass with more of the fine brandy, not waiting for his answer. Last night his old friend had insisted Seth stay at his townhouse rather than return to the Artemis. Seth didn’t know if he’d insisted in order to keep Seth from pulling anchors and stealing out of England, or if he feared Seth might try something more direct—like stealing into Natasha’s bedroom.

  Both ideas had tugged at him with equal compulsion and the need to do something—anything—had flayed at him until he felt he would go mad.

  Perhaps Vaughn had sensed his desperation, too, for he had also insisted on staying up until the wee hours of the night, playing chess and drinking a very fine Madeira.

  After the Madeira, they’d turned to brandy and after too many brandies, Seth found himself being guided to a comfortable guest room. He’d spent the remainder of the night sweating beneath the cool sheets, trying to rid himself of the memory of Natasha’s white face in his arms and still the surge of panic and fury it invoked.

  Now he sipped the brandy, tiredly trying to find a course of action that might take away the horror he’d seen in her face just before she’d fainted.

  “You know she’ll understand, once you explain.” Vaughn stoppered the decanter, and sat in the wing chair drawn up to the fire next to the hard bench Seth had chosen. He couldn’t sit still, anyway, and a hard bench was more suitable for writhing upon.

  “Explain what? That none of what she heard last night was a lie? That her family is right? I’m a criminal…a murderer, in the eyes of the law?”

  Vaughn leaned forward, warming the brandy glass in his two hands. In the firelight his eyes glittered like hard ice, giving a glimpse of the strength of character behind the handsome features.

  “You only met her last night, yes?”

  “Yes.” Seth looked away. “You can call me a fool. I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s foolish. It’s very Irish, and just like you. It might surprise you to know that I understand because I expe
rienced the same thing.”

  “You?” Seth was shocked enough to look back at him and saw Vaughn’s small smile. “You were the sensible one. The strategist. You were always the one telling me to stop thinking with my heart.”

  Vaughn’s smile broadened. “It’s still good advice, but it’s of little defense against amour.” He tossed back the remainder of brandy in his glass and put it back on the side table. “You have no intention of letting her go, do you?”

  Seth clenched his jaw and fought back the fury over his helplessness one last time. “No,” he said stiffly.

  “Then you need a plan to get her back. Do you have one?”

  “No.” He pushed his hands through his hair, amazed to find they were shaking. “How the hell do I take on a whole country? A whole political system? I have a rusty rapier and a brace of dueling pistols. They, on the other hand, will band together and call in every debt and favor owed them across the country, in order to bring me to heel.”

  Vaughn grinned. “I’m the strategist, remember? You’ve been away from England too long. You’ve forgotten how to beat these people at their own game.”

  “I never had the chance to learn,” Seth amended.

  Vaughn sobered. “How old were you when they arrested you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Vaughn considered that for a moment. “And I thought I was the one who had been imprisoned. I cannot imagine what it was like for you.” He eyed Seth with a cool, calculating look that Seth recognized from their school days. Vaughn was hatching a plan.

  “And did you, in fact, commit murder?”

  Seth jumped. “Does it matter?”

  “If I am to help you, it does.”

  “You must consider me capable of the act, if you must ask that.”

  Vaughn grinned. “Capable, yes. I remember that black Irish temper of yours. For the right cause, for the right reason, yes, I think you could kill a man. But never for your own sake. Not for gain. You would kill for the sake of those you love.”

  Seth could feel his cheeks burning. “You’ve changed,” he said bluntly. “You speak of strong emotions with ease.”

  A shadow crossed Vaughn’s face. “I nearly lost Elisa once. It’s not a lesson I need to learn twice. And you won’t deflect me, Seth. I must know the truth of your conviction. Did you commit this murder of which they accused you?”

  Seth took a deep breath. “No,” he said, on the exhale. It came out gustily.

  “What happened? I heard a little of the affair, filtered through too many mouths at school. They said you were a Fenian and arrested for sedition as well as murder.”

  “They had it half right,” Seth admitted. “Sedition was one of the charges. One of many. They found any charge they could and added it to the roll.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “After that first year at Cambridge, I returned home to Ireland.” Seth grimaced. “To the estate at Harrow. I remember how much you resented that I got to go home, while you must spend your days at the college. You should not have envied me, Vaughn, for it was a miserable homecoming. Liam and my friends from the village had changed.”

  “I remember you often spoke of Liam. His family was in the village and his mother worked upon the estate and his father in the mine.”

  Seth nodded. “Yes, that was Liam. But when I returned that summer, things were very different. His mother had slipped and hurt her back and was unable to work at the estate. They had laid off men at the mine, as production slowed down and his father was without work. His sister, Siobhan, was barely fifteen but already in service and what little she earned supported the entire family, for Liam could not find work that a dozen other older, experienced men desperately needed and usually got.”

  Seth cast his mind back to those hot summer days that had been the end of his boyhood. Liam, who had been a staunch friend throughout their childhood, had become bitter and sullen. He spoke often of England as an enemy and the ills the English domination brought upon his family, his village, the whole country.

  Seth had only to look around to see that much of what Liam said was true. There was little food—two bad seasons had destroyed most of the crops and whole families were subsisting on potatoes and what they could poach in the forests…or steal.

  But poaching and stealing carried their own penalties. The English army, ordered to keep the peace at all costs, would ensure anyone caught stealing was sent to trial and even the most minor charge carried heavy penalties. Most of the Irish sent to trial were sentenced to transportation to Australia. Almost daily, Seth took food from the cook’s pantry and gave it to Liam’s mother, who was too desperate to refuse the gift. Seth didn’t tell Liam, who would sooner starve his entire family than accept such charity.

  The plight of the people and Liam’s growing hatred for the English put Seth in a difficult position, for though he sympathized with their trouble, he was half-English himself. His father was the English overlord, the Earl of Innesford. Marcus Williams spent so much time in England attending parliament, however, that he was virtually blind to the troubles of his earldom. Seth spent the summer watching villagers die of hunger, while his rage over his own helplessness grew.

  One night, Liam asked him to come along to a meeting and he had accepted.

  “Fenians?” Vaughn asked sharply. “Surely you knew he had to be involved with them?”

  “Oh yes, I knew. It was one more secret both of us knew, but neither of us would speak of. Just as Liam knew I supplied his mother with food from my own pantry.”

  “Then why did you go?”

  “Because Liam was my friend. And I thought, perhaps, that somehow, I might be able to help.”

  “You were helping already.”

  “I wasn’t making a difference.” Seth shrugged. “And I ached to find a way to solve it for them, to make it better. My father would not…or could not. To this day, I still don’t know which.”

  “Ah…” Vaughn nodded.

  The meeting had been well-attended, yet it had barely begun when English troops burst in upon them. The Irish had scattered and run, their survival instincts well-honed under the English yoke.

  Seth had been caught by surprise and although he, too, had tried to flee he found himself amongst the handful of armed Irish who held the rear while their friends escaped into the night. The troops had overwhelmed them in both numbers and arms, and the rearguard had been rounded up, Seth amongst them.

  Vaughn frowned into his drink. “Why would they arrest a son of an English lord, particularly one with such power in parliament?”

  “I didn’t tell them who I was.”

  Vaughn lifted his brows, clearly startled. “Why on earth not?”

  Seth shrugged. “I had spent months hearing how the English oppressed the Irish, and applied a harsher, unforgiving law that kept them downtrodden and meek. If I had told them who I was, my father would have made sure the charges were dropped and I was set free. It would have confirmed everything they said about the English. I wanted to show them that it wasn’t true.”

  “Did you not realize what that would mean?”

  Seth shook his head. “I truly believed that I would merely be reprimanded. I had not been part of the armed group who killed those troopers. It was my first meeting and everyone at that meeting knew it. I didn’t think it would ever get so bad.”

  “So…you really didn’t believe the Fenians when they said the law for the Irish was harsher?”

  Seth gave a hollow laugh. “Well, I learned for myself. My protests and my claims of innocence fell on deaf ears. I was herded into and out of cells and courthouses and then sentenced to seven years transportation to Port MacQuarrie—the harshest penal settlement in the new colonies. They didn’t care that I would not identify myself—and nor would any of the Fenians who were arrested with me, although they all knew who I was. So the English filed my name as Seth Harrow, as that was where I had been arrested.”

  “Surely your father tried to minimize the senten
ce?”

  “By the time he learned where I was, sentence had already been handed down.” Seth shook his head. “I was too filled with fury. The Fenians were right—I had lived through three months of English justice. I would not let my father, the Englishman, lift a finger to help me. I would not acknowledge him and I refused to let him see me. I was half-English, but in my heart, I was as fully Irish as Liam.”

  “Did Liam not come to your defense?”

  “They would have thrown him aboard the same prison hulk as me.”

  “A prison hulk?”

  “The ship that was to take us to Australia. It sat in the port in Dublin for nearly a year, until it had cargo and prisoners enough to make a profitable run to the colonies. By the time we made landfall at Port MacQuarrie, I was the wild man they thought they had sentenced. Two hundred prisoners set sail from Dublin. Only one hundred and thirteen of us reached Port MacQuarrie and none of us arrived unscathed—we’d survived fever, hunger and oppression from the ship’s guards, who had been paid when they left Dublin and had no reason to care that we lived or died. It was worse for the women, who were forced to submit to the attentions of the guards, but the younger men were not spared, either.”

  Vaughn glanced sharply from under his brow. “You?”

  “None of us arrived unscathed,” Seth repeated gently.

  Vaughn cleared his throat and then rose to pour himself another brandy. The fire crackled loudly in the silence and a log split with a pop and a shower of sparks.

  Seth sighed. “For fifteen years, I have thought of nothing but returning to Ireland a free man and helping my friends where and how I could. I didn’t give a damn that I had been branded a criminal. In Australia, that’s a brand most of us can call our own. It makes no difference. A man is judged by his actions, there.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But now…”

  Vaughn turned to face him once more. “If you are to take on these people at their own game, then you must play by their rules.”