Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Let go of me, you bloody oaf!” Lucy demanded, trying to resist. It was like a nightingale attempting to free itself from the talons of a hawk.

  With a flick of his powerful wrist, Valcour brought her around until she was pinned against the very pillar behind which she’d hidden her bundle of clothes earlier that morning.

  His face swam before her eyes, dark and dangerous, fierce and infuriatingly seductive. Every nerve in Lucy’s body tingled in response.

  “The game is up, girl,” he bit out. “Whatever game you are playing.”

  “I’m not playing anything, damn you! I—”

  “What are you? Some sort of spy, poking around in gaming hells, bewitching vulnerable boys? Or have you set your sights on marrying an English title?”

  “I wouldn’t stay in this godforsaken country if I got a mandate from St. Peter himself!” Lucy scoffed. “In Virginia we don’t give a damn about your titles! A man proves his mettle through his own wits and skill, not by what some musty old ancestor did three hundred years earlier. What did your ancestors do, my lord? Chop off some innocent queen’s head so the king could wed his mistress? Starve out the rightful owners of a castle so the king could steal their treasure?”

  “I have no interest in your opinion of my ancestors, girl. Only your interest in my brother.”

  “And the reason I was at the gaming hell. And God knows what else. I said it before. I say it again. Go to hell, my lord.”

  Valcour glowered down at her. “Tell me, damn you, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Drag me off, kicking and screaming to lock me in a tower?”

  “I would never stoop to such crude methods to persuade you.”

  “Oh, no. You’re a man of ice, just as Aubrey said! You may possess the title, my lord, and the family wealth. But Aubrey is five times the man you are! At least when I kiss him I don’t get frostbite!”

  Valcour’s eyes narrowed, that arrogant, sensual mouth curling in an expression she disliked. A flame flickered to life in Lucy’s chest. She realized his intent in that heartbeat and tried to skitter backward. She slammed against the pillar with a force that made her see stars.

  The stars exploded into a wild conflagration as the earl of Valcour jerked her into his arms, his mouth claiming hers with a sensual ferocity that made her bones melt, her heart attempt to beat its way out of her chest—and into Valcour’s own.

  She had been kissed by boys before, tentative groping that had been uncomfortable and vaguely embarrassing, like her exchange with Aubrey.

  Valcour was a man.

  She could feel it in every sinew of his body pressed so intimately against her. She could taste it on his lips, a drugging passion that whispered of dark pleasures she had never explored. His hands seemed alive with power, as if he could dominate her at will.

  Lucy snapped to awareness as if she’d been struck. Terror and fury raged inside her. Terror at her reaction to Valcour’s kiss. Fury at the power he had held over her, even so briefly.

  She fought like a wildcat to escape him. Her nails bit into one arrogant cheekbone, but he caught her wrist before she could slash downward.

  “Let me go, you bastard!” Lucy raged. “I’ll kill you if you don’t!”

  Was it possible for regret to touch such wintry eyes? Valcour’s features seemed carved in stone, but he held her, trapped.

  “Don’t move,” he said quietly. “We’re tangled somehow.”

  Lucy tried to pull away, but she felt a tugging at her breast, heard a soft ripping sound.

  “I told you to hold still!” Valcour gritted. “My lace has caught on your gown.”

  Lucy pressed her back against the pillar, struggling to keep her knees from buckling.

  Long fingers went to the snag, Valcour’s knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her breast, dipping into the shadowy hollow of her cleavage. Lucy’s flesh quivered at his intimate touch, her throat tightening.

  She could tell he was trying to be as detached as possible, as if the kiss had meant nothing to him. And it hadn’t. It had been a punishment for an unruly child. A lesson taught by the high and mighty earl of Valcour in the most expedient way possible. For some reason, the knowledge made Lucy’s eyes burn.

  She drove back the unfamiliar sensation by snarling between clenched teeth. “If you break my brooch, I’ll—”

  “I think we’ve both leveled enough threats for one night.” Something about his voice made Lucy go still.

  Valcour worked a few moments more, then stepped back, her miniature cupped in the palm of his hand, his tanned fingers closed over it. How many times in the past month had Lucy herself held the image of her father? It seemed as if she could draw from the smooth porcelain a little of Alexander d’Autrecourt’s essence, a whisper of the dreams that had fashioned her precious “Night Song.” To see Valcour holding it as if it were a worthless trinket wounded her somehow.

  She tried to take her treasure back, but he whisked it out of her reach.

  “Obviously you prize this brooch more than your reputation, Miss Blackheath,” he said coldly. “Perhaps I should hold it ransom to guarantee that you comply with my wishes.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Lucy hated the tremor in her voice.

  “You have witnessed firsthand the lengths to which I will go in order to arrange things to my satisfaction. Absconding with a lady’s bauble is far less strenuous than a duel. My wishes are as follows: You and Aubrey will conduct yourselves with discretion. There will be no more performances at social events. No more embraces in front of windows.”

  “Next time I’ll have him drag me away into the garden as you did,” Lucy said hotly.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it, madam. Nor would I recommend getting carried away by your… er, youthful passion. Perhaps in the wilds of Virginia it is accepted when a girl of breeding and a gentleman of good family act like a mare and stallion at breeding time. In England it is assumed that a young man will indulge in such potent pleasures. But the same pursuits have disastrous results for a lady.”

  A familiar wildness was surging through Lucy’s blood, that blinding sensation that overcame her when her temper spun out of control. “I assume it was a man who made such an asinine rule.”

  “For the lady’s protection, perhaps. After all, she is the one who swells with a bastard child if—”

  “Maybe I have a dozen bastards littering Virginia already!”

  “I much doubt it unless you began whelping them when you were five years old,” Valcour snapped. Then, as if he suddenly realized the absurdity of the conversation, Valcour’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “God help whatever man gets himself snarled up with you, madam. I suppose this miniature is a picture of the last one you made a fool of?” Valcour opened his fingers, his gaze flashing in mocking scorn at the object.

  A stream of moonlight danced on the miniature, wreathing the image painted upon the delicate white porcelain in an unearthly light. Lucy tried to snatch the piece of jewelry, but her hand froze at the expression on the earl’s face.

  His skin was ashen, as if the miniature had sprung to life in his hand. His eyes, always so intense, were consumed with some emotion Lucy couldn’t name. “Where did you get this?” he breathed.

  Lucy swept the miniature out of his hand and clutched it against her breasts, searching desperately for some plausible lie. God knows, she didn’t dare blurt out the truth.

  “I’m devoted to—to music. I came upon some that this man had written. It was beautiful and… and my… father surprised me with the miniature as a gift.”

  “You lie.” There was something in those handsome features that made her tremble inside. Fury and pain and… could it be fear?

  “Did you know him?” Lucy asked, her heart standing still. “Have you—you seen—”

  The words ended on a gasp as Valcour’s hand shot out, knotting in the curl that tumbled down to her breast. He crushed the silken tendrils in those powerful fingers.

  “I’ll
tell you this only once, girl.” Valcour’s voice sliced to her core like a blade of steel. “Stay away from my brother. I may be a blackguard, madam, but I protect my own. Remember that.”

  Lucy stood shaken as he stalked away, leaving her with only the smooth press of the miniature in her hand, the burning memory of his kiss on her lips, and the searing enigma of what he had seen when he’d looked into the miniature’s painted face.

  An hour later Lucy dismounted before Perdition’s Gate, her palms damp with nervousness, her mind still haunted by the stricken expression on the earl of Valcour’s face. In the week since she had last come to the gaming hell, she had attempted to convince herself that there could be no danger in the vague blue eyes of the enigmatic stranger. He had seemed so lost, almost childlike, as if a breath of wind could crumble him to dust.

  But if the mere sight of Alexander d’Autrecourt’s painted face was enough to get such an alarming reaction from a man as powerful as the earl of Valcour…

  Lucy wiped sweating palms against the breeches she wore, feeling once again the sensation Pandora must have experienced when she opened her mythical box. She jammed her hands in the voluminous pockets of her frock coat to hide their trembling from curious eyes, and to comfort herself with the smooth feel of her pistol and the worn parchment of the letter she had received in Virginia. Then she walked through the now familiar doors.

  The establishment was much less crowded this night, with only a handful of patrons casting dice or playing cards. It was as if the place were half asleep, far different from the sizzling tension that had characterized it during the exchange between Valcour and Jasper d’Autrecourt.

  Lucy had been vaguely uneasy that someone would recognize her after her part in the notorious duel, but it seemed that without Valcour poised like some great black hawk at her shoulder she was beneath anyone’s notice.

  She made her way toward the stairs, then up the risers to the second floor. It was even more deserted than below stairs.

  One of the doors was ajar, its occupant repainting her mouth with carnelian.

  Another door was shut, the enthusiastic sounds of those within penetrating the wooden panel.

  The chamber that had been appointed for Lucy’s meeting was open, the room empty, not even a fire on its hearth.

  Just beyond it, a sultry prostitute was trying to entice a gentleman of advanced age into her room. The man had evidently been imbibing spirits so freely that he had made it only as far as a chair in the hallway. His head lolled back, his mouth sagged open as he began to snore. A familiar little boy was merrily pilfering the man’s pockets.

  At the sound of Lucy’s approach, Natty Scratch turned his back to the stairway, stuffing a gold watch into his pockets and adopting an aura of total innocence. The harlot looked up and gave her a look of frank appraisal. “I think this one’s dead. Want to come along with Josy, little man?”

  The girl who had been painting her lips peered out and gave a throaty chuckle. “You’d have t’ find the sugar stick in his breeches with a tweezers, Jo!”

  Two spots on Lucy’s cheeks went blazing hot as the harlot swayed over, her dark nipples bobbing above a rim of lace. “He may be a bit scrawny, but at least he’s still moving.”

  “I’m not interested in… in… that,” Lucy said, looking studiously at a point over the woman’s shoulder. Her gaze collided with the boy’s shrewd one.

  “Great balls ‘n’ garters! It’s you!” Natty trilled in delight. “Josy, this was the man I was telling you about! The virgin who jumped out the window the night o’ the duel! Did you come back for a sample of sweet Josy here?”

  “No,” Lucy said hastily. “I’ve come here to meet someone.”

  “Found someone you have, sweetmeat,” Josy said, feathering her fingertips down Lucy’s arm.

  Lucy jerked away. “I came to meet a gentleman.”

  Josy’s delicate brows arched. “It just ain’t my night, is it,” she lamented with a grimace. “We don’t cater to that particular taste here. But if you come into Josy’s bedchamber I’m sure we can contrive some way to satisfy you.”

  Even Lucy’s fingertips felt red with embarrassment. “I didn’t come here for—for carnal pleasures. I came to find a gentleman who is supposed to be staying in that room over there, but he seems to be gone.”

  “You mean Mad Al—” Natty gave a squawk of pain as Josy dug her elbow into his ribs.

  The harlot’s eyes clouded with suspicion, and Lucy could feel her withdrawing. Under other circumstances, she would have been heartily relieved. “Natty, you know there’s no man staying here,” Josy said firmly. “Never has been.”

  “Natty, please.” Lucy turned to the boy. “I saw him there just last week. He sent me a letter, asking me to meet him here. I have to find this man, whoever he is.”

  “Well, best of luck to you, sweetmeat. Last Thursday there was a duel here and the poor fellow ran off like the devil himself was after him.”

  “That’s so,” Natty supplied helpfully. “Climbed out of the window a few minutes before you did. Course, he came down a lot more careful like. You just jumped. But, then, if that dark-haired bastard who was bellowing at you had been chasing me, I’d have jumped straight into fire to get away from him.”

  Lucy swallowed hard. Valcour had seemed like menace incarnate, his shirt clinging to the powerful contours of his chest, fires of intensity seeming to blaze beneath his harsh features. His sword had beckoned like death’s outstretched hand.

  If Alexander d’Autrecourt had indeed clashed with Valcour at some time in the past, the mere sight of the earl that night would have been enough to drive off a gentle musician. Or had it been Jasper d’Autrecourt who had sent his brother fleeing into the night?

  “Natty, do you have any idea where he went?” Lucy asked.

  The boy tried to touch his nose with the tip of his tongue. “Got enough troubles o’ my own. If I tried to keep track of every crazy person that came around here my head would explode.”

  “But he has to be here somewhere,” Lucy insisted. “He took nothing with him. Perhaps I could look through his things.”

  “Took ’em the next day,” Natty said. “Even if he hadn’t, they’d have been filched by someone else by now. He had a right nice velvet frock coat I had me eye on.”

  A niggling sense of defeat pressed down on Lucy’s chest. She dug in her pocket, extracting the cryptic poem she had received in Virginia, staring at it as if it might somewhere hold the key to this madness.

  “What’s that?” Natty chirruped.

  She hesitated for a moment then extended it to the boy. He held it upside down and eyed it as if it were written in Greek, then he showed it to the woman. Josy scrutinized it, then looked up sharply and brushed one finger across Lucy’s cheek.

  Josy grinned. “I’ll be tarred and feathered. You’re a girl!”

  “He ain’t no a girl!” Natty squalled, looking as if he’d just swallowed a crate of lemons. “Girls don’t jump through windows an’—”

  “You must be the one,” Josy said.

  “The one?” Lucy echoed.

  “The one he told me to watch out for. Jenny, isn’t that your name?”

  A shiver scuttled like icy mouse paws down Lucy’s spine. “I’m… Jenny.”

  The harlot disappeared into her room. A moment later she returned, a bit of vellum in her hand. “He told me to give you this.”

  Lucy snatched the note, holding it to the candlelight to read it.

  Dearest child,

  It breaks my heart to leave without first seeing your sweet face, but I am in grave personal danger. There are those who would stoop to any villainy to keep us apart. But do not fear them. Be strong and patient, my darling Jenny. I will find you.

  A.

  Lucy crumpled the note in her fist, acid impatience washing through her. She wheeled on the startled Josy, Natty’s eyes rounding in astonishment.

  “Damn it, I’m tired of this dancing with shadows! This tells m
e nothing about where to find him even if I wanted to! You have to think, both of you. Was there ever anything he said? Something he did that might give me some clue where to begin?”

  “I don’t have to do nothing ’cept keep my bed thumping and my belly full.” Josy adjusted the neckline of her gown until only the tops of her nipples peeked over the tawdry lace. “I got business to take care of. Got to earn my keep.”

  Lucy rummaged in her waistcoat pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. “Here. I’ll pay you even more if there is anything you can tell me.”

  Josy licked red lips, her pretty brow furrowed as if she was concentrating so hard it hurt. Her mouth pursed in irritation. “I just can’t think of anything. He sat in there and scribbled music. Seemed a little queer in the attic, but kind of sweet.” She waved her hands in exasperation, then her eyes suddenly lit up. “I don’t know if this means anything, but he used to call me a name in bed, one that wasn’t my own.”

  Lucy felt the heat of embarrassment flood up her throat and spill onto her cheeks. “I hardly think his pet names for you could be of any interest.”

  “He called me Emily.”

  Lucy felt as if she were going to retch. Her mind filled with images of her mother’s heart-shaped face, those gentle hands that had healed the wounds of a defiant little girl and a rakehell bound straight down the path to destruction. Emily Blackheath’s hands had always seemed more like those of an angel than of a mortal woman. Lucy knew that Ian Blackheath felt the same as she always had, that Emily was a gentle treasure to be shielded, protected.

  And this mysterious man—whoever he was—had been calling a harlot by her name.

  “What’s the matter?” Natty’s voice seemed out of focus somehow. “You look right green.”

  “I have to find him,” she said faintly as Josy plucked the remaining coins from Lucy’s hand.

  There was a sound of heels clicking against the floor. A spindly little man with protuberant eyes and slack lips was approaching. One glance at Lucy and his frog-like face fell in disappointment. “Josy, my angel, you already have someone to entertain, I see. I was so hoping we could play.” He gave a nasal laugh.