When he returned to his cottage to clean up, Hunt sent a note to Governor Bascombe by messenger, telling of his planned trip to Mount Colombo and the reef coast. Then he left his own message for Layton behind the brick over the lintel of the gutted hut. Finally, he’d tell Daphne Hobbs of his plans, and then he’d wait. One of them was bound to take the bait. He prayed it would not be Daphne.
Daphne reclined on a woven rattan chaise beneath the rain tree, her eyes closed and her face turned to the setting sun peeking through shifting leaves. Her muslin dress afforded her only the lightest of layers between her skin and the warm breeze.
She heard footsteps, long and measured, and knew Hunt had returned. The edge of the chaise gave as he sat beside her. She kept her eyes closed, wondering if he would speak. Instead, he smoothed her hair back from her forehead and traced the edge of her wound.
A languid sigh escaped her lips. How odd that he should have such an effect on her. A heat having nothing to do with the sun seeped through her.
“Does the sun hurt your eyes?”
“A little,” she admitted, and smiled in spite of herself.
“What do you find amusing?”
“That I should know you by your touch.” She covered his hand with hers. “I fear that is not a good thing.”
“Then we must disagree,” he mumbled, “because I think it is a very good thing.” He cleared his throat and trailed his fingers down the side of her cheek. “The skin is already mending and the bruise is fading to yellowish around the edges. With a little care, this injury will not leave a ragged scar as the last one did.”
The reminder of her scar broke her lethargy. The setting sun ducked behind a cloud bank and she blinked to focus her eyes. “Thank you for seeing me home last night, Lockwood. I don’t know how I would have managed alone. But you really did not have to stay. Olivia has been hovering all day. I have told her the headache is gone, but she will not listen.”
He grinned. “I should stay again tonight, just to give Mrs. Herrera something to think about,” he said.
“Entirely unnecessary.”
“I would not be so sure. I want you to be very careful and keep watch.” He paused and took her hand between his. “I’ve been thinking, Daphne. Is there a chance that you were a target of that rock? Do you know of any reason why someone might want to hurt you?”
She shook her head even as she thought of William’s uncle. But no, he would simply have her brought up on charges of murder. No need to sling rocks. She was far more vulnerable than that.
He accepted her denial and dismissed the subject. “I won’t stay, but I will be checking on you to reassure myself of your well-being before I leave for a day or two.”
Leave? A sharp pain pierced her middle. “Where are you going?”
“Just to see a bit of the island before I return to England.”
She breathed a little easier. “Will you be gone long?”
“A day or two. I’ve decided to see the coral reefs and the waterfall since they come highly recommended.”
“Are you taking a guide?” She resettled against the chaise cushions.
“I doubt I’ll have need of one.”
“Then…you will be returning to England soon?”
He hesitated before he answered and she prayed he was changing his mind. “I have duties. Obligations…”
She nodded. “Of course you do. I just…it seems like such a long way to travel for so short a time. I wonder that you bothered at all.”
“I was at liberty for the moment, and I had to make some decisions about New Albion.” He breathed in as if he were bracing himself. “If I sell, I shan’t be returning.”
She gazed through the trees toward the ocean, thinking of the miles that would separate them soon. A hollowness swept through her, and a sense of loss. They’d never been intimate, hadn’t engaged in courtship rituals or declared affection for one another, but her life would be somehow diminished when he was gone. Ah, but he would be better without her.
She stroked the side of his cheek, savoring the masculine hint of dark stubble. “So pensive, Lockwood?”
He caught her hand and held it. “Do you ever visit London, Daphne? Have you thought of coming back? If circumstances presented an opportunity, would you—”
“No,” she gasped, sitting upright. She coughed to hide her astonishment. “That is, I have too many unhappy memories there. I do not think I could ever be at peace in England.”
“Peace? Is that what you want?” He leaned closer, brushing his lips across her forehead. “Or do you want rapture? There’s no peace in loving, I think. Only a constant hunger.” And then he dipped to speak against her lips. “A burning need,” he said, his breath hot and sweet.
Oh, he was right. She didn’t want peace. She wanted him. She had always wanted the things she couldn’t have—a large and loving family, a man who loved her above all else, a home that was a refuge from the world instead of a prison.
Reckless and dizzy, she parted her lips and he accepted her invitation—softly, at first, and then with deepening hunger.
“You should come inside, querida, before you become overheated.”
Lockwood broke the kiss and scowled at Olivia. The housekeeper’s double meaning did not escape them. Daphne’s cheeks grew warm and Lockwood stood. He gave her a slight bow and whispered, “I will see you later, querida,” in a tone Olivia could not mistake for anything but sarcasm.
From his vantage point in the shadows, Hunt kept watch. The waning moon cast eerie shadows through the palm fronds and undergrowth. He’d left his horse far down the beach, in a hidden clearing near Sea Whisper. No soft whickering or shifting hooves would give him away. He waited through the tedium, through the stealthy movements of nocturnal creatures and the call of night birds.
But nothing revealed itself.
Two hours before dawn, a soft sound, almost a shifting of the breeze, alerted him that something had changed. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. This was not an innocent sound, but the hint of something furtive.
From the shifting shadows along the path from the road, Oliver Layton appeared. A sharp stab of disappointment burned in Hunt’s breast. One expected betrayal from the enemy, but it was bitter as gall coming from a comrade. He scarcely breathed as he watched to see what Layton would do.
Soundlessly, the man climbed the steps and made a soft hissing sound. “Lockwood…”
Hunt held his breath. Was the call a greeting or a test of how deeply he slept? Layton thumped his door with one knuckle. “Psst…” When there was no answer, Layton went down the steps and passed Hunt’s hiding place on his way to the beach.
Hunt had a gift for stillness and knew how to control his breathing so that it became a slow, soundless rhythm. And he knew how to wait. These things were just a small part of what made him an adept assassin—and unfit for anything else. There was more, but Hunt did not like to think of those things.
If Layton had not forced entry and was looking for Hunt on the beach, it was unlikely he meant harm. Nevertheless, he waited while Layton glanced up and down the beach and then returned to the wide verandah and sat down on the steps.
Torn between waiting and making himself known, Hunt chose to wait. If Layton was cunning, he could be trying to draw him out or see if he’d laid a trap. Well, Hunt was a very patient man. Half an hour passed, then an hour. Finally Layton took a scrap of paper and a small piece of lead from the pocket of his work shirt and scratched a few words. He slipped the paper under Hunt’s door and disappeared the same way he’d come.
And still Hunt waited until he was finally convinced that no one else would be coming, when dawn was less than an hour away. He took the steps two at a time, pushed his door open and retrieved the note. He glanced at his desk drawer and noted the hair he had placed there was still there. No one had come while he’d been with Daphne.
He unfolded the note and read. Lockwood, I must talk to you at once. Tomorrow night at the hut. Layton
Her room was dark and only the barest hint of growing light through her bedroom window signaled the coming dawn. Daphne breathed deeply of the cool predawn air, and a tingle made her shiver. There was something foreign in the air.
The house was silent, but she had the sense of another presence somewhere near. Not Olivia. She’d sent the housekeeper home well before midnight. She lay motionless, straining to hear a footfall, a sigh, a stirring of the still air.
Nothing.
Daphne…
Had her name been spoken? Or had she dreamed it? She blinked, trying to see into the darkened corners of her room.
As if a ghost were materializing, Lockwood stepped out of the shadows of the doorway. “Daphne? I thought you were sleeping. Did I wake you?”
She pushed herself up against her pillows. “Not you.” She sighed. “Your scent.”
He came closer. “Horse and leather?”
She shook her head. “Heat and…” Sex! A heady blend of man and desire. She couldn’t say that, but it was not necessary. He knew what she was thinking.
He moved closer. “I would have knocked, but I didn’t want to wake you.”
And she knew that nothing as inconsequential as a door would have kept him out anyway. “I thought you had forgotten.”
“God, no,” he breathed, arriving at her beside. “I will never forget you, Daphne.”
His words seared her conscience. She would never forget him, either, but her past committed them to a life apart. He had obligations, responsibilities and a bright future. She had no future at all.
And soon he would be gone. Could she let him go without…without knowing what might have been? Without feeling his flesh against hers? Without discovering what lay beyond the seductive kisses and skillful hands? Without knowing if she could be a woman in full, or if Barrett’s taunts were true? Was she hollow? Cold? Incapable?
She took his hand to place it over her heart. “Do you feel my heartbeat, Lockwood?” she asked.
He nodded, looking strained and tense.
“Remember it. And know that as long as it beats, I will remember you.”
His eyes widened and he pulled his hand back as if he’d been stung. “Daphne, do not say goodbye yet. I am not gone.”
She nodded, knowing he would be soon. She did not demur when he leaned closer and traced her lips with his finger. She sighed and lifted her chin. He recognized her wordless plea and met it with a kiss. She knew he wanted to finish what they’d begun this afternoon before Olivia’s interruption.
He cupped her breast, moving his thumb in little circles around the aureole. Her nipple firmed and he groaned. “I want you, Daphne,” he whispered. “Not this endless teasing. I want you fully, with nothing held back. No reservations. Without qualification. Yielding to me. I don’t want a part of you— I want all of you. If you cannot give me that…”
She could never be wholly any man’s. As long as she kept her secret, she would be holding back. And if she told the truth, he would turn away from her. What choice was that?
She offered her lips again and welcomed the smooth heat of his tongue and answered with her own hunger. She was unaware that she was crying until the salted taste of her tears came between them.
“The sweetest refusal I’ve ever had,” he murmured.
She could have called him back when he stood and moved to her door. She could have lied and betrayed them both. But she let him go, and she knew she would regret that for the rest of her life.
Chapter Nine
Hunt sat across from Governor Bascombe and watched the man’s eyes. The eyes always gave a liar away—a quick blink, a shift in direction, the inability to meet a direct look. Unless the person was a pathological liar, there was some indication of untruthfulness.
Bascombe twitched in his chair. He kept looking toward the door as if he expected someone. Unfortunately for him, Hunt planned to stay rooted until he had some answers.
“What was that?” Bascombe asked. “Doyle?”
Hunt nodded.
“Good man. Very conscientious.”
“I gathered.”
“Is that it? Is that why you’ve come? To ask after Doyle?”
Actually, he’d come to assess the governor. As a peer, Hunt was not used to being relegated to underlings. There had to be a reason Bascombe was always sending Doyle to deal with him. “I spoke with Doyle just the other day, Governor.”
“Did he tell you he is being reassigned?”
The lie came easily. “No, he did not mention that. Where is he going?”
“Undecided yet. Back to London to begin with. Then…could be anywhere.”
“Your request, sir? Or his?”
Bascombe shifted in his chair but met Hunt’s eyes. “Mine, but he does not know that.”
“Is his service unsatisfactory?”
“He is quite proficient. But… I have no need of a chargé. My family problems have resolved themselves. I plan on being on St. Claire for a good long while.”
Most men would not relish exile on a tiny island. Most men would, in fact, be only too glad to leave a chargé in place and hie back to London. Why was Bascombe guarding his position so jealously? Because it would be easier to conduct his clandestine business without an observer? Because he was trafficking with the pirates?
“Glad to hear it, Governor,” Hunt said. Then he couldn’t resist a little probe. “Is Blackpool a part of St. Claire, or has it declared its independence?”
Bascombe’s gaze snapped up from his glass of port and a deep flush invaded his cheeks. “Might as well have,” he growled. “I cannot even find the name of a mayor or any official. Can’t correspond without a name, damn it all. Who the deuce do I make my demands to?”
“Have you thought of requesting military assistance?”
Bascombe looked down into his port again. “By and large, St. Claire is a peaceful island. We have managed to avoid military oversight so far. Wouldn’t want to change that.”
“Why?”
“Once you’ve got them here, you cannot get rid of them. And God knows they bring as many problems with them as they solve. Changes the whole atmosphere of the place.”
Hunt smiled. There was truth in his assessment. Unfortunately, Bascombe’s motives were questionable. He could as easily be covering up a crime as maintaining the provincial way of life on St. Claire. Still, Hunt found it odd that Bascombe did not visit Blackpool or make any attempt to incorporate its people into island life or government.
He gave the governor a bored sigh and sipped his own port. “I must thank you for warning me about not venturing over the mountains.”
“I did? Yes, well. Good advice, that.”
“Do you really think it could be dangerous?”
“Reports…indicate that is the case, Lockwood.”
Well, that was good enough for him. He’d leave tomorrow.
The night air hung heavy over the entire island. He could have cut it with the knife he kept in his boot, or captured it in a jar. It was oppressive, weighing down on him and making his light cambric shirt stick to his chest and arms. He hadn’t needed a jacket or a waistcoat for his short jaunt to meet Oliver Layton.
Hunt stood in the shadows of the ruined hut. Layton would be along soon and he wondered if the man would be prepared for Hunt’s plan. Dangerous? Perhaps. Necessary? Absolutely.
His horse whickered and tossed his mane. Within a minute, Hunt heard the soft plod of hooves as a horse approached. He stepped out of the shadows as Layton dismounted.
“I wondered if you’d be here,” he said.
“You sounded urgent.”
“Aye. It’s the first piece of useful information I’ve been able to gather. These islanders are a closemouthed lot.” He looped his reins over a low-hanging branch of a sheltering oak. “Where were you last night?”
Hunt ignored the question. He wai
ted for Layton to approach. The edge of his sheathed knife pressed against his ankle as a reminder that Layton could be a traitor. A sudden weariness came over him. He was sick of suspecting everyone and trusting no one, and of his life depending upon that.
“Well? What is it?”
Layton ran his fingers through his hair. “The dock foreman asked if I needed some ‘extra’ work. I told him I wouldn’t be averse to making a little extra money. He told me to come to the Blue Fin at half past nine last night.”
Hunt rubbed the stubble along his jaw. “Did you go?”
“Aye. Along with four other men. We were taken to a schooner docked at the end of the wharf. She must have docked after dark, because she wasn’t there before.”
“Markings?”
“None. No flags, no name. Black sails.”
Black? Hunt’s interest was piqued. “And?”
“There were boxes and crates waiting on board. We unloaded and stowed them in the harbormaster’s shed.”
“Are they still there?”
He shrugged. “I doubt they would keep evidence around where it could be found. But that is not the interesting part.”
If that was not interesting, Hunt didn’t know what was. He nodded for Layton to continue.
“When we were done stowing the crates, we were led to a warehouse filled with fresh goods and some unmarked barrels. I know the smell of gunpowder, Lockwood, and those barrels reeked of it.”
That was interesting. “Let me guess. You loaded them onto the schooner.”
Layton nodded.
“Did you see any documents change hands?”
“It was dark, Lockwood. The captain and our foreman huddled together for a few minutes. He could have passed off some documents, but I didn’t see any.”
“Did you find out where the schooner was bound?”
“No one said, but I’d lay odds she was bound for Blackpool. She didn’t look like she’d been rigged for a longer voyage.”
“Then?”
“The foreman paid us each four pounds and told us we had been drinking in the Blue Fin all night.”
Indiscretions Page 9
