Till Dawn Tames the Night

by Meagan Mckinney

  "It's locked," he said.

  She spun and faced him. "I cannot return to my cabin?"

  "Not yet. Come here and sit down." He motioned to the dolphin-legged couch.

  When she didn't move, he grabbed the torn edges of the back of her dress and pulled her to the couch as if she were a kitten held by its scruff. He eased himself down next to her and raised his bare feet onto a nearby chair, then he leaned back and perused her.

  "What are you looking at?" She gave him a baleful stare and indignantly pulled her disheveled gown back onto her shoulders.

  "I was just thinking that we're not that far away from

  St. George's. And until we are, I believe it's best you stay here with me. I've no inclination to go after you, should you decide to swim back."

  "I cannot swim."

  "Good."

  "But because I haven't that avenue of escape, that doesn't mean I'll endure these indignities forever." With a great show of self-possession, she again shoved up the shoulders of her gown. But it was no use. No matter how she pulled and adjusted and stretched the coarse linen of her dress, she still despaired at the sight of her sheer cotton chemise. Finally she was forced to use her hands. With her arms crossed over her chest like a shield, she barraged him with accusatory glances.

  Her silent reprimands only seemed to irritate him. Piqued, he said, "The first thing you can dispense with, Miss Dayne, is this infernal guarding of your maiden­hood. I promise you, no one on this ship is going to snatch it away."

  She gave him a look of utter disbelief.

  He only laughed.

  "I won't have you or any other man looking at my . . . undergarments," she retorted, refusing to lower her hands.

  That all-too-familiar smirk appeared on his lips. "What is it you're attempting to hide? Have you, like so many fashionable women these days, developed a penchant for bust improvers?"

  She gasped. "How—how—dare—you even mention— such a thing—"

  "Then release your hands."

  "I most certainly will not!"

  "I hate to crush you, my dear Miss Dayne, but I've seen a woman's chemise before, and while yours appears to be fetchingly well endowed, I assure you the mere sight of it doesn't inflame me beyond all control."

  She shot him a shocked look, then damned the uncon­trollable color that began suffusing her cheeks. She cared not a whit that he was left unmoved by her state of un­dress, but it was infuriating that he could turn things around and make it look as if she did. Yet despite his taunts, she was determined to retain what was left of her dignity. Her hands clutched at her dress until her knuck­les were white.

  When he noted her stiffening posture, his annoyance only seemed to increase. He gave a discouraging glance to the small teapot that Benny had brought in, then a grim smile twisted his mouth. "Perhaps it's some spirits we need. A little brandy should do the trick—that should loosen you up, get you talking. Perhaps even take out that infernal stick that's up your—"

  "No!" she interrupted, refusing to let him finish what­ever crude remark he was about to make. "I don't want any spirits. I just want to know what you're up to. In fact, I demand to settle this now so that you can turn us back to St. George's."

  Ignoring her, he went to his bookcase and opened one polished mahogany door. Behind it were several decant­ers. He picked one that contained a brilliant amber liq­uid. With two cut-crystal tumblers also in hand, he walked back to the dolphin-legged couch.

  "Have a drink, Miss Dayne," he ordered.

  "Your wretched liquor won't affect my tongue. So I demand that you tell me your business immediately."

  "Ah, that's very good." He laughed and poured a healthy two fingers into one tumbler.

  "This serves no purpose. I refuse to speak a word until I understand what is going on—and until I'm treated with more deference."

  "I'll treat you with deference. This was Napoleon's fin­est." He put the tumbler right before her. "Come along, Aurore, my prim little maiden. If these spirits won't affect you, then you have nothing to be afraid of. Take them."

  "I don't want—" she protested, but before the words were out, he took one of her hands down from her chest and wrapped it around the tumbler. She watched while he eased himself down on the couch once more.

  "What is going on aboard this ship?" she asked as soon as he was next to her. In her haste to seek some answers, she ignored the fact that her shoulder was bared when one side of her dress fell to her elbow. "Why all these plans to kidnap me when I don't know a thing about this Star of Aran?"

  He crossed his arms over his massive chest and studied her as if she were some delicate, delicious prey. The creamy skin of her collarbone seemed to draw his gaze like a jackal's.

  "I'll tell you everything you want to know," he said slowly. "But first let me again remind you of your need to cooperate." His gaze flicked over the tumbler in her hand. "I told you to drink that. When your glass is emp­tied, we'll begin."

  She stared down at the tumbler in her hand. What she should do was toss its contents right in his handsome face. But an action like that would only delay their con­versation further, and she wanted to know what was go­ing on, and as quickly as she could.

  With a passionate hostility for him growing in her breast, she took the brandy in one defiant gulp. The fire it ignited in her throat almost suffocated her, and she spent the next entire minute suppressing a violent cough in the most discreet, ladylike manner she could. But when she had finally collected herself, she slammed the tumbler down on the table next to her and faced him, her eyes demanding answers.

  "More?" He held out the decanter, the shadow of a smile crossing his lips.

  "No," she said in a hoarse whisper.

  He smirked and poured himself a drink. Stretching out, his long form took up most of the couch, and she was forced back against one scroll arm. Cast in her tiny section of the couch, she was sure she had never been abused by anyone as she had been abused by him, and yet, too, no matter how she wished to deny it, she was sure no one had ever intrigued her as he did. Even now, with his one arm lolling over the back of the couch and the other resting on his torso, he had to be truly the most magnificent creature she had ever seen. His hair, long, dark, and gleaming, made her almost ache to reach out and touch it, to see if those curls could possibly be as heavy and thick as they looked. His chest, covered with a fine mist of perspiration, made her wonder if it would feel cool to the touch or, instead, warm and hairy and slick. She studied his profile next. For a baseborn criminal, he possessed a strong jaw, a classic Roman nose, and a star-tlingly patrician brow. If she didn't know better, she would have thought him bred to much higher concerns.

  Certainly, if he bowed at all to society's fashions, he could easily be mistaken for one of the gentry. Perhaps even a peer.

  "Have some more," he suddenly said and leaned to­ward her with the decanter. She was about to refuse when his leg brushed intimately against her. Even that slight touch unnerved her. It conjured up that dream she had had of him—and all the uncontrollable feelings she'd felt while having it. Now she was this man's prisoner. And what he wanted from her, she didn't even know yet.

  Numbly she looked down at the full glass being thrust into her hand. Though it had been torturous going down, the drink had made her feel braver by half. She had al­ready lost one battle of wills to this man, but she was nowhere near to surrendering the war; she needed all the courage she could get. She took another sip and spent another moment choking discreetly into the back of her hand.

  "What do you want, then?" she finally asked, ready for the answers.

  "I want to know where the Star is, Miss Dayne. The Star of Aran. If you tell me that, you can go free."

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  "It's an emerald—as big as your fist. Your father stole it from the Viscount Blackwell—"

  "My father! He did no such thing!" she gasped, shocked at his words. Her father was no thief. Though her memories of him were few, he
r father was a kind man, a man who had taught her nursery rhymes and given her jewelry. Such a generous, noble soul couldn't possibly be a criminal too. This pirate was grievously in error.

  "You don't like that, do you, me besmirching your fa­ther's character?" He smirked. "Isaac was right again. He said you'd have a difficult time believing it."

  "My father didn't do such things, I tell you. You're mistaken." She glared at him.

  "But he did do it. He stole that emerald, then put you out of harm's way in that almshouse. So where did he take it, Aurore? Do you know?"

  "The Home was not an almshouse, and my father did not steal. You're mistaken."

  He suddenly grew impatient. He took her jaw and forced her to stare up at him. "We can quit this playact­ing of gentility, Miss Dayne. You're the product of a thief and an actress-cww-prostitute. The only reason you and your father have the same last name is because he did not object to your using it. It has nothing to do with your legitimacy."

  Her face turned dead white. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying that you, my dear proper Miss Dayne, are a bastard."

  She tore from his hold, nearly choking on her denial. "I won't hear such lies!"

  He turned deadly serious. "They're not lies. I'm telling you the truth. Your mother was an actress in a halfpenny-theater in Bethnal Green, and she died giving birth to you, her only child. Your father raised you and probably even regarded you with some affection before he stole that emerald and took off for parts unknown, leaving you at that orphanage. What I want to know is, where did your father say he took the emerald?"

  Aurora hardly heard him. She couldn't believe what he was saying. Her entire being rebelled at it. She was not some bastard whelped in the back of a dingy theater. She was the proud daughter of—?

  The picture was blank. There were no faces of her par­ents for her to remember, nothing except the vague im­pression of a man who could have been anyone: rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

  She closed her eyes. No, it could not be true. She re­membered as a young girl Mrs. Bluefield reciting a line of a poem to her the one and only time she had ever sum­moned the courage to ask about her parents.

  Oh hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,

  Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

  It had been the best thing to say. All her life Aurora had ached to believe those words, and by saying them, Mrs. Bluefield had given her the courage to believe they were true. She'd worked extra hard on her manners, her decorum, her studies, all in the secret hope that one mag­ical day the knight and the lady would arrive to retrieve her. And all the lonely years she'd spent as an orphan would be proclaimed a terrible mistake.

  . . . thy sire was a knight,

  Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright.

  Irrational tears sprang to her eyes. She quickly turned away so that he wouldn't see them. She knew she was not the only child Mrs. Bluefield had recited the poem to. Even she herself, once a teacher, had used the line to answer some of her children's questions about their back­grounds. All of them had wanted to believe the rhyme. And for none of them, not even herself, was it true.

  "You're a wretch to be telling me these shameful lies," she said, her voice shaking with emotion.

  "It's time this superior facade of yours came tumbling down."

  "If I'm superior, it's because I have some honor and righteousness of spirit." She whipped around and faced him, her fury momentarily unleashed. "Unlike you, who couldn't look a snake in the eye!"

  He paused, as if her anger surprised him, then he laughed mockingly. "Still the rigid little ice maiden, I see. Remind me, Aurora, when we reach the heat of the Ca­ribbean, to chill my wine next to you."

  She shot him a nasty glance.

  He sobered. His face suddenly went rock hard. "Now I want to get back to business. Where is the Star?"

  "Even if this vile accusation were true about my father, I was hardly more than a babe when I last saw him. How could I know where this Star is?"

  "He taught you that nursery rhyme. He told you where it was in those silly lines. So where is the Star? Tell me and you'll be free."

  She looked at him for a moment, pushing her hurt far down inside her to a place no one else could see. She could feel the spirits taking their effect, and she was glad for their release. Though her thoughts became more muddled, the liquor helped her better disregard his threatening proximity. "My father did not steal that em­erald. I'll never believe it."

  "Well, you must. Michael Dayne was indeed a thief, and a good one at that."

  She grew quiet. She wished she had some proof of her father's good character in order to show Vashon he was wrong, but she had nothing. Only her lizard locket, which he had already tried to convince her had belonged to someone else. "Do you really know about my father?" she asked in a pitiful whisper, suddenly feeling a crack in the brittle shell she kept placed around her.

  "Yes." He watched her.

  "Then where is he now? Is he still alive?" Her eyes glistened with hope. She didn't want to believe Vashon knew anything about her dear father, but after all the years of loneliness, of having no connection to anyone on this earth, she'd certainly take a father who was a thief over no father at all.

  "It's unlikely," he answered slowly, his eyes searching her face. "He hasn't been heard of since he abandoned you at that orphanage."

  Her gaze dropped to the floor. She couldn't bear for him to see her disappointment. "You know nothing about him, but you accuse him of being a thief. Where is your proof?" she demanded, trying to cover up her vulnerabil­ity. "You dishonor my father and yet you have no proof."

  Without warning, his hand slid to her throat. She shiv­ered from the warmth of his fingers tracing over her pulse. Reverently, he picked up the lizard-shaped locket that hung around her neck.

  "This is how I know," he said in a hushed tone, his gaze locking on the lizard. "This pendant was made for Lady Blackwell for the day she married. It's well known that your father stole it from her husband. It identifies you as Michael Dayne's daughter more eloquently than this," he touched a lock of her hair. "Your father, I'm told, had the same color hair."

  "There are others who possess this hair color," she reminded him.

  "But there's only one pendant. I told you that the first time we spoke."

  "So you say my father's nursery rhyme tells where this emerald is?"

  "Yes. I'm sure of it. The clues are there." He let the necklace fall.

  Slowly her hand crept to her throat. As was her habit she fingered the locket, but this time her reaction wasn't out of nervousness. Now it was out of protection. With a slow sureness, she began to realize that she had a tool to use against this man. She wouldn't believe the wretched thing he was saying about her parents. But above all else he seemed to want this emerald, and if by some chance it was true that the whereabouts of this jewel were hidden in the words of the nursery rhyme, then she would see to it he never deciphered it. For she and she alone knew that the rhyme had another verse. A second verse that was engraved inside her locket.

  "Tell me everything you remember about your father. We can begin there," he said.

  She swallowed. She had to keep the locket from him. But for now, as long as he and everyone else thought her lizard was merely a pendant, she was safe. "I'd like some more brandy," she said.

  His brow lifted at this request. Silently he complied.

  When her glass was filled once more, she groped for some appropriate answers. She knew she had to tell him enough to satisfy him, without telling him too much. In the meantime, it was best to keep her knowledge of the rhyme to herself. She'd save that as a bargaining chip, particularly if circumstances worsened. She took a sip of the brandy and glanced at him. She hated to even specu­late how much worse things could get.

  "I don't remember anything about my father," she be­gan, unable not to add, "except, of course, he was most noble. But in any case, my memories of my father won't find you th
e emerald. It's obvious this jewel is in Ireland. By its name it belongs to the Aran Isles. Though I know not which one."

  "The Star came from there, that's true. But it's not there now. I've looked. Others have looked," he added enigmatically.

  "But if you're hoping to find the location through the rhyme, the rhyme makes no sense. How can you hope to decipher it?"

  He stared at her until she felt singed by his gaze. "You're the key to that, Aurora. You're going to decipher it for me."

  A tingle of fear crept down her spine. "And what if I cannot? What's to become of me then?"

  He leaned closer. "We'll just have to make sure you stay useful then, won't we?"

  It was all she could do not to blurt out right then that there was another verse. He frightened her. The uncer­tainty of the voyage frightened her. But she knew she had to remain strong. Her survival depended on it. If she handed him her trump card, then her worth to him would be speculative at best. And what did pirates do to worthless captives? Make them walk the plank? Abandon them on a sandy little cay? She took another fortifying sip of the brandy and fervently wished she'd read Defoe's The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe.

  "You're going to be three sheets to the wind if you keep gulping that down."

  She looked at him, only half hearing his comment. Fanning her face with her hand, she wondered how this enormous cabin could have grown so small. She was suf­focating. If she didn't get some air, she thought she might retch. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she walked toward the stern and opened one of the ports. The breeze whipped at her hair and the sea spray cooled her cheeks. She placed her tumbler on the sill and looked out in the distance to where St. George's melted into the turquoise horizon. Already they were so far from the island there was no getting back. The thought panicked her all over again.

  "Vashon," she finally said, "you must believe me that I don't know the whereabouts of the emerald. If I did, wouldn't I have found it myself?"