Till Dawn Tames the Night

by Meagan Mckinney

  "I'm afraid that old girl already half expects something like that. I think you'll have to do better."

  Both men laughed.

  The captain finally looked at Vashon in awe. "I admit it now, Vashon, I really didn't think this scheme of yours would work. I had no idea Miss Dayne would actually be so anxious to leave England. I truly harbored some fears we'd have to sneak into that orphanage in the middle of the night and roll her up in a carpet."

  "Why do something so messy when you can have the chit walk right into your hands? Or your ship, as it were."

  "Kidnapping by any other name . . ."

  "Would still smell as sweet," Vashon finished. With a vengeance-he added, "Besides, should we have thrown her to Blackwell?"

  Isaac stared at him for a long moment. "You know, it never fails to impress me that you can refer to Peterbor­ough by the title Blackwell. My God, man, how that name must rot in your gut."

  "Not at all," Vashon answered. "He did much to get that title. Until I've the desire to take it away from him, he may have it. In truth, I might not enjoy toying with him so much, if he had nothing to lose."

  "You're a bigger man than I, Vashon. Or a colder one. I'm not sure."

  Vashon smiled. "Come now, Isaac, surely my magnani­mous nature has impressed you. I've saved our dear Miss Dayne from a terrible fate. Her father stole that emerald from Peterborough, and knowing him as we do, I shouldn't think the viscount would be too charitable."

  "No," Isaac agreed. "Old Blackwell wouldn't be. Mi­chael Dayne certainly picked the wrong man to rob. Have they ever found out what happened to him?"

  "I heard someone say once that they thought they saw him hanging from one of the viscount's oaks. But I think that poor bloke was somebody caught poaching, not Miss Dayne's father."

  "Well, if Blackwell treats his poachers so harshly, per­haps Aurora Dayne can count her blessings she's on the Seabravery now." As if to signal his leaving, Isaac put on his captain's cap and said, "I'll inform the crew that you're pleased, Vashon, and that everything is going as planned. They're all concerned about this voyage, you know. I'm afraid a lot of men's hopes rest on Miss Dayne's shoulders."

  "Yes," Vashon agreed, turning pensive. "It's hard to believe our fortunes all hinge on that shabby little churchmouse."

  "You may see her as a shabby little churchmouse, but still she's a lady beneath all that raggedy brown fustian. I hope when you deal with her, you'll remember that."

  Vashon gave him a cynical smile. "Let me remind you, Isaac. Our Miss Dayne's not exactly the cream of society. Her father was a thief by trade, her mother, God only knows what, and she grew up a pauper in an orphanage."

  "Yes, yes." Isaac nodded. "But she doesn't know about her parentage and I'm sure she'd be horrified to find out."

  "Well, perhaps it's time the little miss knows who she is," Vashon stated coolly.

  "I suppose. But still, she strikes me as quite an inno­cent. And I don't think anything can change that. Not even you."

  "You underestimate me then, Isaac."

  "I've never underestimated you, Vashon."

  Vashon met Isaac's stare. A look passed between the two men, a look fraught with the shared agonies of the past. Uncomfortable, Vashon looked away. Making light of the captain's comment, he said, "Isaac, never fear for that little brown wren. Between you and the old widow clutching at the girl's arm, I'm sure she'll be quite safe from all my treachery."

  Isaac chuckled and the tension left his face. "Yes, yes, I suppose you're right. That old Mrs. Lindstrom has been hanging on to Miss Dayne like a bulldog."

  Disgruntled, Vashon reached for a brandy decanter on the caryatid table.

  Isaac watched him and sighed. "How I wish I could join your celebration. But the men must be casting off the hawsers by now and I have to get this ship out of the docks before they sink it."

  Vashon nodded. "Go to it then. I want to unload our chattel in Bermuda as quickly as we can so that we may begin our real business." His jaw tightened with determi­nation. He looked down and took a long sip from his glass. Darkly he uttered, "Victory is near."

  Aurora opened her eyes. For a moment she wasn't sure where she was, but then she remembered and lay back beneath the eiderdown quilt.

  How could she have forgotten she was on a ship? The persistent rocking alone should have reminded her. Even now she was amazed that she had remained in her bed the entire night. Fingering the turned railing that ran along the bedframe, she mused that it certainly didn't seem enough to keep her on the mattress. Yet apparently it was. She was still in her tiny bunk.

  She closed her eyes. The ship's rocking wasn't the only thing that reminded her of where she was. All at once a flood of images passed through her mind. There was a shiny black coach . . . dockside revelers . . . an or­nate couch with gilded dolphins as feet . . . a kindly widow in taffeta weeds. There was also a man. He stood tall and menacing in a black caped coat, his eyes as glit­tering as the emerald chips on her locket.

  She rolled over and clutched the pillow to her. The memories of the night before—when the "pirate" owner had boarded—were still rather unnerving. Yet surely, she told herself, the dark handsome shipowner would look less menacing in the morning light. Most likely her imag­ination had painted him in much more threatening a manner than he actually deserved. In fact, when she saw him at breakfast she would probably be shocked at his pallid features and stumpy proportions. The man was probably about as threatening as a gnome, and when she saw him again, she would feel quite the fool.

  Reassured, she opened her eyes and looked around her. No one could doubt that her employer was a generous soul. Her cabin was designed for the finest of ladies. In spite of the dear cost of space on a ship, the compartment was even larger than her bedroom at the Home. It was wainscoted in mahogany and swathed in shades of Dres­den pink and black. Complete with lights and portholes and custom-fitted bureaux, the compartment was so lav­ishly appointed Aurora was almost embarrassed when she saw her brown woolen dress hanging tiredly next to a pitcher and bowl of silver lustreware. In comparison to her surroundings, her garments certainly looked mean and incongruous, yet Lady Perkins had deemed her de­serving of them. When Aurora thought of how she could have made the long voyage across the Atlantic, she counted her blessings. She knew it was quite common for 150 passengers to bunk in one hold, and she had even heard of families too poor to afford passage anywhere else but near the rudder. They spent the entire journey across the cold Atlantic soaking wet and ultimately died of pneumonia before they reached their destination.

  She was indeed fortunate, she thought, as she looked around her cozy little cabin. Things could be much worse.

  With that thought spurring her on, she tossed aside the covers and went to the pitcher. In only a few minutes she was dressed and sitting on the bed combing her long hair. When the pale red mass of curls was tamed into a knot at the back of her head, she pulled on her slippers and walked to the door. She remembered quite clearly that the galley was at the end of the passage in the aft quarters of the ship. Her only hope was that Mrs. Lindstrom would be there to join her.

  Pulling open her battened door, she was surprised to find the door opposite hers open. She was even more shocked to see into the huge cabin and find, against the far wall, the unusual couch that sported the gold dolphin-shaped legs. A thick Chinese carpet with a pattern of confronting green dragons covered the floor and a huge mahogany desk stood against the far corner, obviously where the owner conducted his business aboard ship.

  Seeing the owner's quarters opposite hers was a bit unsettling. She wasn't exactly sure why, but her first in­stinct was to scurry back into her cabin and lock the door. She found the situation even more disturbing when she felt the edge of her door and realized her door had no lock. Just a simple latch that worked from the inside and out.

  Timidly she closed her door, all the while keeping her sight on the room before her. It appeared that the owner was out, but she was unnerved at the thought
that he might be just on the other side of that door. He might be performing his toilet and unaware that his door was open. He might be shaving, or worse, dressing.

  Aurora blushed. She had never in her life seen a man dress before. John Phipps had been quite adamant that she not even see him in his shirtsleeves until after their engagement. John had told her that seeing a man not fully garbed would most definitely put her into a state. Now, thinking of that tall, handsome owner of the Seabravery unclothed, she was amazed that for once in his pious little life John had been right. That would put her into a state.

  She made her way down the short passage until she found the roundhouse. Mrs. Lindstrom and the other passengers had either already eaten or were taking their breakfast in their rooms. The galley was empty save for the chef, who quickly served her a fine meal of eggs and black pudding. Earlier Mrs. Lindstrom had informed her that as the voyage continued the meals would get pro­gressively worse, so with that in mind, she ate everything on her plate.

  When she was finished, she was eager to seek company. The quietness of the cabins and the lack of passengers made her a bit tense. She knew there weren't but nine passengers on board, and she longed to see some of them. Having spent most of her life at the crowded Home, the hollow echoes of the ship as it sliced through the waters made her feel twice as alone.

  She found her way beneath the porticoed entrance to the aft cabins and went out onto the main deck. There were seamen everywhere, tying the rigging, climbing the masts, running the decks, but to her disappointment, no­where did she spy a fellow passenger. Feeling a pair of eyes staring at her, she looked up, and the boy in the crow's nest yards above her head tipped his cap. She smiled and waved, yet immediately the boy was chastised by one of the seamen in the rigging. Taken aback, she looked to the other sailors to see if they too abided by such behavior. When she did, each and every one of them violently averted his gaze. She knew it was proper to keep a distance between passenger and seaman, but this was odd behavior indeed, especially when just the night be­fore these same sailors had tipped their caps and nodded pleasantly to both her and Mrs. Lindstrom.

  Shrugging off an ominous feeling, she went to the rail and looked out. They were well past Gravesend by now and the Channel stretched out before them like a frothy blue jewel sparkling in the morning sun. A few whitecaps were stirred up by the wind, and though the breeze blew brazenly over her bonnetless head, she was loath to re­turn to her cabin. Instead she watched as the English coastline gave more and more of itself up to the sea. They were going along at a fantastic pace, and she found it exhilarating.

  "Miss Dayne. I hope your accommodations are satis­factory."

  Aurora spun around. She was sure Captain Corbeil was her solicitor, but the smile on her lips died as she faced the Seabravery's terrifying owner.

  He was most definitely not a gnome. If anything, in the morning light he had grown a foot from when she had last seen him. With the sunlight flickering in his eyes, she could now see they were a vivid shade of emerald green. His eyes, despite all their promise of terrible emotions, took her breath away.

  Dumbstruck, she tilted her head up to look up at him; it was all she could do to utter even the most inane con­versation.

  "I'm—I'm afraid we haven't had an introduction, sir."

  "Allow me," he said, nodding his head. "My name is Vashon. I'm the owner of this vessel." With that, he leaned back on the railing next to her. He was very close. Almost too close. With his legs slightly apart and his elbows against the rail, he seemed very much at home. Now, as last night, he most definitely looked the part of the commander of the Seabravery.

  "And I am Miss Dayne. But, of course, you seem to know that already," she said.

  He was so near she had to suppress the urge to step back out of his shadow. She really wanted to flee to her cabin, but she told herself that she was no longer the milksop maiden John Phipps had thought her. She was a lady of adventure now. It wouldn't do to run away. After all, she told herself, what harm could come to her on this ship?

  She took another glance up at him and suddenly she had her doubts. This man was anything but harmless. He was clean-shaven and well-dressed in breeches, boots, and a shirt as blindingly white as the sails above them. Yet the man's appearance still unnerved her. She found the heavy coils of his long black hair, though neatly bound, threatening. He was unlike any man she had ever seen. His silver ear hoop, glinting off the sparkling water, confirmed this. He was no John Phipps, a man as easy to run from as an unweaned puppy. Somehow she felt if she ever dared run from this Vashon, he was just the kind who would go after her. And not stop until he'd got her.

  "Are you enjoying your voyage, Miss Dayne?"

  She tilted her head up once more to look at him. His eyes were alight with laughter. Somehow he must have known she was intimidated and obviously found it amus­ing. She suddenly became annoyed.

  "Everything is quite satisfactory, Mr. Vashon. Unfor­tunately, you'll have to excuse me now—"

  Tensing, she felt his gaze lower to her throat. She un­wittingly looked down and saw he was staring at her locket, deep in thought.

  "Your pendant is beautiful," he murmured, his eyes reflecting the light with all the subtleties of a jewel. "And how well it suits you, Miss Dayne."

  "My father gave it to me," she whispered, growing flustered. She had never met a man as brash as this one. John had been loath even to look at her locket, calling it "a pagan thing." This man was not only staring at it but admiring it as well. He looked as if he ached to reach out and touch it.

  He smiled and leaned further back on the railing, much to her relief.

  "I seem to recall one Viscountess Blackwell having a bauble just like it," he said. "But then again, that pendant was stolen, fifteen years ago at least. I can only guess where it is now."

  Aurora's eyes darkened. Was this man somehow accus­ing her of stealing this viscountess's locket?

  "I assure you, Mr. Vashon, you must be mistaken." She fought to keep her voice even. "This necklace was my father's legacy to me, and he made it clear when he left it for me that there wasn't another one similar to it in all of England. So no one could possibly have owned one like it."

  "I believe you, Miss Dayne."

  Taken aback by his sudden assent, she was at a loss for words. The wind picked up and loosened one of the pins from her hair. Her hand went to her head and she real­ized, to her chagrin, that she'd been out in public, speak­ing to a man, without her bonnet. Her cheeks colored as she quickly repinned the loose curl. She said, "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Vashon. I fear I must re­trieve my bonnet."

  "By all means," he said, a strange look crossing his face. "The sun gets hot in the tropics. A fair maiden like yourself needs protection."

  A strange fluttering blossomed in her belly. She looked at him and her fingers worried the locket at her throat. For some terrible reason, her bonnet didn't seem like the kind of protection of which he spoke. And it didn't seem nearly enough. Particularly if it was to protect her from him.

  She left, taking only one more glance at him. Nonethe­less, she was overcome with the desire to find her cabin and hide there for the rest of the journey to Jamaica.

  THE

  VILLAIN

  . . . this declining age, when too many

  worthy members of the community seem

  to have an alacrity in sinking.

  —Captain Rees Howell Gronow:

  Reminiscences

  Chapter Three

  Lord Josiah Peterborough, seventh Viscount Blackwell, was a stunningly handsome man. Though he was well into his forties, his dark brown hair had yet to silver, and he possessed a most arresting pair of brilliant green eyes. With title and wealth, he was one of the most sought-after peers in London. That he cut a rather joyless figure was easily forgiven, attributed to the fact that he'd been tragically widowed at a tender age. If anything, his mel­ancholy stance only endeared him further to an already adoring society. His f
emale admirers in particular viewed him with sympathy—well-tempered, of course, with a generous dose of erotic infatuation.

  His conquests were many. At Melbourne House, Lady Melbourne had quickly declared him intriguing and in­sisted always that he dine next to her. The patronesses of Almack's labeled the evening a success whenever the vis­count chose to attend. Lord Blackwell was accepted ev­erywhere, even at Carlton House, and the Regent had even seen to it that he was among the guests invited to a weekend or two of debauchery at the Marine Pavilion. But though the cream of the peerage had long embraced him, there were still three things about him most did not know.

  The first was his shame-filled past as the poverty-bound, untitled son of a barley merchant. Because of his complete lack of funds, Lord Blackwell's future had once looked so bleak that he'd been sent off to Heidelberg at the tender age of twenty-three in the hope that he might earn a living as a physician. Though he never finished his studies, even now, decades later, Josiah Peterborough still possessed an intimate familiarity with the human body, coupled with a horrifying knowledge of surgery.

  The second was simply the fact that his heiress wife had not taken that overdose of opium, lo, these many years ago, without assistance.

  And lastly, no one quite knew the exact source of his wealth. It was naturally assumed that it had come from the title that had ironically landed upon him right after the death of his step-brother. His pitifully short marriage was also a point of speculation concerning his income, for his late wife had been endowed with a fortune. But alas, neither was so.

  While the Blackwell estate did bring in some funds, the viscount had become greedy during his years of penury in Heidelberg. To make money, he had turned to illicit dab-blings in certain "trades." These ventures had soon proved so profitable that his lust for their income only grew more fierce. Now his empire was enormous: He owned a fleet of ships, all pirated off the seas from their legal owners; he was a crafty smuggler of Cantonese goods; he sold art purloined from the broken aristocracy of Paris; and he peddled flesh, of any and all kinds, in London's wretched Spitalfields. In short, there was not a whole lot the Viscount Blackwell would not do to make a gold coin as long as it was done discreetly. And he had been doing it all rather discreetly for a number of years.