Raven's Vow

by Gayle Wilson

  “Are you saying that he wouldn’t let you go?” Raven asked, fighting his fury. He knew the bastard had somehow forced her to come here, and now she was telling him that Amberton wouldn’t let her leave.

  Something had replaced the calm with which he had greeted her, but, as always with Raven, Catherine was unsure about whatever emotion colored his tone. The adrenaline that had been sustaining her was draining away, and she felt almost faint in reaction to the security Raven’s presence provided. Gerald was no match for her husband’s strength, and she knew she was safe. But even as she thought that, she remembered with revulsion how Amberton’s wet, loose mouth had closed over her breast. She retched softly, pressing her fingers tightly against her lips.

  “Are you hurt?” Raven asked.

  Controlling her nausea with the strongest effort, she looked up to reassure him. There was something very strange in the clear blue depths of his eyes. Fury, she thought, trying to imagine what he was feeling. He had every right to be angry.

  “No,” she said. “I managed to get away from him before-”

  “Will you forgive me, Catherine, if I send you home with Tom?” Raven interrupted her to ask softly, knowing he was about to lose what tenuous control he had. “I believe I still have some business to conduct with Lord Amberton.”

  “He’s had his kiss,” she said unthinkingly. She didn’t want him to give Gerald money. She’d paid for her foolish wager. She only wanted to go home and forget that Amberton had touched her. Whatever Raven wanted to do to her she deserved, and he was right about hurrying home. She wanted to be there, in the privacy of her own chamber, and to wash away, in the hottest water she could stand, the filth of what had happened this afternoon.

  “I assure you I don’t intend to give him another,” Raven said. And when she glanced up, he was smiling at her—a real smile, the corners of his lips tilted farther upward than she’d ever seen them. “Go home and make yourself beautiful. I’ll be there before the first guest arrives. I promise you.”

  At the quiet assurance in his deep voice, she nodded. He reached behind him and opened the door. On legs that continued to shake, she walked across the short expanse of Gerald’s foyer to place herself into the competent hands of her father’s former coachman, who had so willingly come to work for her husband.

  “My lady!” Tom said, and she could hear the shock in his pleasant, country-bred voice.

  “I’m all right,” she lied. “Just take me home, please, Tom. You can return for Mr. Raven. He said he had some business.”

  “I should imagine he has!” said the coachman, putting his hand under her elbow and practically lifting her into the coach. In its dim interior she gave rein to the tears she had denied in front of Raven, and for the first time in her life she didn’t consider what such a bout of weeping would do to her complexion.

  “My wife informs me that, despite her attempt to leave, Lord Amberton, you tried to detain her.”

  Although the American’s voice was perfectly calm, Amberton felt a flicker of unease. What he had planned had not gone off exactly as expected due to Catherine’s painfully effective resistance and John Raven’s surprising lack of infuriated response. But Gerald believed he could still achieve his ends if only he could goad the American enough.

  “I would never be so ungallant, Mr. Raven, as to dispute a lady’s word,” Amberton said mockingly, “but I would ask you to consider that I didn’t abduct Catherine.”

  “My wife is free to visit whomever she wishes, but she shouldalso be free to leave whenever she desires.”

  “You must know, Mr. Raven—”

  “The only thing Imust know, my lord, is why you chose to hold Mrs. Raven here against her will.”

  “Mrs. Raven?” Amberton repeated derisively. “I had almost forgotten. Poor Catherine always did have a penchant for eloping with unsuitable men. The first one, however, was both handsome and charming,” he taunted, “and he swept Cat off her feet. But, of course, she was only sixteen. That time, I understand, the duke was more successful in saving Catherine from herself. You should be grateful Montfort didn’t catch you. He tried to kill Henning, to whip him to death. Had to be forcibly restrained, I’m told. Rumor was Henning had managed to convince Cat her father wouldn’t prevent their marriage if she already belonged to him in… some way,” he suggested, allowing one eyebrow to rise and a small, salacious smile to touch his lips. “I’m sure you’ve already discovered the rather irreversible result—”

  The mocking suggestion was abruptly cut off by the American’s lightning-fast movement. Raven was across the space that had separated them almost before the viscount could raise the sword he had carefully concealed behind his right leg. He had taken the opportunity Catherine’s greeting of her husband had offered to arm himself, the blade already prudently at hand.

  God, the bastard was quick, Amberton thought, his body automatically executing the classic dueler’s lunge that he’d practiced with his Italian fencing master for so many hours. The heavier blade affected his movement only slightly, but the American’s reaction to the sword was as swift as his attack had been.

  Raven couldn’t avoid the point entirely; Amberton’s lunge had been too well timed. The viscount had been waiting for his control to slip, and when the nobleman’s taunting had achieved the result he’d wanted, he’d brought out the hidden weapon. Raven had time only to execute a small downward twist of his body to direct the shaft through the muscles of his shoulder rather than into his heart, which had been Amberton’s target. He could feel the impact of the blow and even the slide of the blade into the muscle, its impetus driven by the viscount’s graceful lunge.

  There was no pain. Not yet, at least. And wouldn’t be until he’d finished what he intended, Raven prayed. He blocked all thought of the sword and focused instead on the supple wrist of the man who held its hilt. “Release it,” Raven ordered softly. His thumb found the vital nerve and exerted unbearable pressure. Without the viscount’s volition, his fingers unclenched, surrendering control of the sword.

  As soon as the hilt had been freed, Raven maneuvered the wrist he held, easily turning the Englishman’s body and pinning his right arm behind his back. The position was so painful that an involuntary cry was wrenched from the viscount.”

  He could feel the American’s breath on the back of his neck. More frightening than the steel of his grip was the fact that Amberton could see, out of the corner of his eye, the hilt of the sword that still impaled that massive shoulder resting on his own. Horrified, he realized he could even feel it move as Raven whispered, “Gossip, my lord, is for old women and cowards. If I ever hear that filthy lie on anyone’s tongue, I’ll come afteryou. And if I ever hear that you’ve touched Catherine again with your vile slander or with your viler hands, you may be very sure I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  Raven wanted to kill-him now, had never been in a situation where he had wanted to kill a man more. The control he was exercising in not breaking this English bastard’s neck would make his grandmother extremely proud, he thought. Almost without conscious intent, he jerked the arm he held upward as he released it. Although he hadn’t anticipated it, the resulting snap of bone was somehow deeply satisfying. Uncaring of the damage he’d inflicted, he pushed the viscount away from him and stepped back. Fighting to control his murderous rage, Raven watched Amberton take a staggering step, trying to cradle the injured arm.

  Allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction, Raven took another step backward, and with that movement was uncomfortably reminded of the viscount’s sword. His eyes never leaving the ashen face of his adversary, Raven gripped the protruding hilt and pulled. Although the operation required more effort than he’d thought it would, he managed to prevent any expression of discomfort from touching his face. Nothing was allowed there other than a mocking smile as he held the Englishman’s eyes.

  When the sword was free, Raven threw it on the sofa, the dark blood marking the elegant cream satin. He allowed his gaze to
rest on the viscount a moment more. Amberton huddled against the wall, his right arm held carefully by the slender, fashionably white fingers of his left hand, his mouth open in shock.

  It was never wise to humiliate your opponent, Raven’s grandfather had warned. Pride was something the Scots understood, and Raven knew he had damaged whatever pride Amberton had left. A dangerous enemy, Raven thought, but he didn’t regret what he’d just done. Not when he remembered how Catherine had trembled and what the viscount had suggested. Turning, Raven let himself out, departing as calmly as he had entered.

  Behind him, in the silence of the salon, Amberton shivered suddenly. He had never seen anything as cold-blooded as the American calmly removing that still-quivering sword from his own body, that damn strange smile playing over his lips. It was diabolical. Almost inhuman, he thought, shivering again.

  “Bloody savage,” he whispered bitterly.

  Despite the heat of the bath water the servants brought up, Catherine found she couldn’t stop shivering. Not only did she have to face thirty guests, but she had begun to think rather more clearly about Raven’s actions this afternoon. She supposed he intended to knock Gerald down for what he had done, and he appeared capable of doing that with ease. But now she was far less worried about what he would have to say to her about her exploit and more worried about him. She knew that lesser offenses than the Viscount Amberton had committed today resulted in duels. The insult he’d offered her, even mitigated by the fact that she had gone to his apartment voluntarily, was certainly of a serious nature. Despite Raven’s calm and his smile, she didn’t believe he had taken Gerald’s actions lightly.

  He had, however, promised to return before the arrival of their guests, and not allowing herself to think about what possible explanation she could offer if he didn’t, she permitted her body to be perfumed, groomed and gowned. When she found she was ready with a full five minutes to spare, she indulged in another finger of her husband’s brandy. If she was unsteady in her movements tonight, she supposed that was to be preferred to giving in to a fit of vapors. That ridiculous performance was something she had never indulged in in her life, and despite all that had happened, she didn’t intend to now. Fortified, she was able to sweep down the gracefully curving staircase seconds before Edwards opened the door to the first callers.

  Catherine stood alone, automatically welcoming her guests with a practiced warmth and a deliberate sparkle in her eyes that was intended to enchant those gauche enough to wonder about her explanation that Raven had been temporarily detained. In the midst of that refrain, made this time to Lord Elliot, a friend of her father’s and a cabinet member as well, she felt Raven’s warm, callused palm rest on her shoulder and slip caressingly down her upper arm. She leaned briefly against his strength and then stepped away, looking up into his face with a teasing laugh.

  “You will have to make your own excuses, my dear,” she said truthfully. “I’m afraid they looked askance at mine.”

  “To be candid, gentleman, I have had an experience that you should be able to sympathize with.”

  At his words, her breath caught. She met Raven’s eyes, wondering if he could possibly be angry enough to betray her before the elite of the world he professed to want to impress.

  “My valet ruined every cravat he’d prepared. I had to wait until he had heated the irons and readied another. I threatened him with my wife’s displeasure should he manage to ruin this one.”

  He lifted long, dark fingers to touch the snowy linen, tied in the intricate folds of the Trone d’amour. Because she had been looking for any sign of what he had done to Amberton, Catherine’s eyes examined the knuckles of that hand. Seeing her gaze on his fingers, Raven allowed his hand to catch hers and bring it to his lips.

  “Am I forgiven?” he asked formally, his blue eyes lifting over their joined hands to meet hers.

  “If our guests will forgive you, then I suppose I must.”

  “Be kind, my dear,” advised Elliot. “You really have no conception of the demands on a man’s patience an inept valet can make. I’m surprised, Mr. Raven, that you were in any condition to join us after a disaster of that magnitude.”

  “As am I,” Catherine said softly, and knew by the flicker of reaction in his eyes that her husband understood her comment.

  “I’m generally a very even-tempered man,” he said to Lord Elliot, still holding Catherine’s fingers in the warm clasp of his. “It takes a remarkable event to unbalance my composure.”

  Aware that they had been playing their dangerous game of repartee for quite long enough, Catherine secured the freedom of her fingers and turned with a smile to the next guests. Her husband continued to talk easily to Lord Elliot for a moment, before he, too, turned to be introduced to the new arrivals.

  Eventually the hardest part of the evening—the greetings and the introductions—were gotten through, and they were finally seated around the vast table, where the skill of Edwards’s well-trained staff would carry some of the burden.

  There were a few references made to her husband’s interests in Durham and Tyneside, but he didn’t dwell on those aspects of his business dealings. He might believe coal and the rails would be the key to whatever was going to happen in Britain, but he didn’t seem inclined to talk about his commercial activities over his wife’s dinner table.

  He answered the inquiries politely and with the same serious attention with which he’d always responded to her questions, and then turned the topic to those more familiar to members of the quality. Racing and hunting, horses always being a safe subject, dominated for a while, as did the failures of the present government, which sparked a rather spirited debate between a gentleman with Whig leanings and Lord Elliot. When called on to offer his support, Raven presented a few well-informed remarks and again adroitly turned the talk in a less volatile direction.

  When it was finally time to lead the ladies into the salon and leave the gentlemen to their port, Catherine knew that the evening had been a decided success and was relaxed enough to have stopped worrying about whatever would happen in the dining room when the feminine influence had been removed.

  The gentlemen joined them in little more than an hour, the ladies not yet having exhausted their store of gossip nor their shared musical expertise. The guests eventually left in a pleasant babble of conversation, pledging to finish halfcompleted stories and interruptedon-dits.

  When the door had closed on the last of them, Catherine found she didn’t want to face her husband’s censure tonight, however well deserved she knew it to be. She had dealt with enough for one evening, she thought, even though, she admitted, she had foolishly brought it all on herself.

  When she turned, she found Raven leaning lazily against the door frame of the grand salon, watching her with those crystal eyes. Unwilling to meet what she was certain would be a rebuking stare, she made her way to the dining room, intending to congratulate Edwards on the success of the service and to ask him to pass on her compliments to the chef and, of course, to the staff, which had worked so hard to bring off tonight’s triumph. She found the butler on his knees, a basin filled with soapy water on the floor beside him. Damp cloth in hand, he was scrubbing at a stain on the back of the chair her husband had occupied at dinner.

  “What is it, Edwards?” she asked, and the dignified servant rose with an unaccustomed agitation, his body blocking her view of the chair, his smooth face flushing as it had when Raven had attempted to engage him in conversation.

  “A stain, madam,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. She wondered if he had spilled something on the imported silk.

  “What sort of stain?” she asked, a delaying tactic while she tried to decide how to handle the situation. She knew he would expect her comment, but she was so genuinely grateful for the smoothness of the service tonight that she hated to spoil it by having to chastise him or some member of his staff for the careless destruction of what was a very costly piece of material.

  “It appears to be
… I believe, madam, although I might be mistaken—”

  “I imagine it’s blood,” Raven interrupted matter-offactly.

  When she turned, Catherine found her husband standing in the doorway of this room, his right hand resting high on the frame.

  “Blood?” she echoed. “But how would blood-”

  “The usual way. Someone bled on it. And it’s not the servants’ fault. I’m only glad your guests are less observant than you and Edwards seem to be.”

  “It’s nottheir embroidered silk,” Catherine said, trying to think what he could be talking about. She stepped closer to get a better look at the dark stain, which almost covered the colorful peacock that had been painstakingly worked into the cream material. When the realization of what his words implied finally struck her, she turned back to find the doorway empty.

  She found Raven halfway up the curving stair, which he was climbing much more slowly than his usual rapid, twosteps-at-a-time ascent. She hurried up beside him and caught his arm. She was afraid he might refuse to talk to her, but he stopped immediately, meeting her searching gaze without hesitation.

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  “Nothing to brag about, I promise you,” he said, the blue eyes full of self-derision. “But I don’t think you’ll be bothered with Lord Amberton’s attentions again.”

  He took a step past her, but her firm hold on his sleeve prevented him from moving farther up the staircase without rudely pulling his arm away.

  “Did you kill him?” she asked, knowing very well the consequences of that to his business activities if he had.

  “Did you expect me to?” Raven asked. “You led me to believe…” he began, and then stopped, his eyes resting on her face, wondering if he could have misinterpreted what had been happening this afternoon. “You know, I hope, that if you hadn’t told me he’d tried to prevent your leaving, I’d never have touched him. Our agreement was that you might do as you please, up to a point. And I trust you to keep your word. Beyond that restriction, I recognize your right to entertain as many gallants as you wish. But I thought you implied that Amberton went beyond the boundary you’d set for him. Or was I wrong?”